The tap didn’t turn on this morning. It appears to be waiting for me to actually to do something about that. Like an aging tenant biding their time until the superintendent arrives, my internal editor sits, watching for any drip. Any sign of what will come through. A tentative touch of the faucet dislodges a tiny bead. Proof the water main is not shut. Yet, too small to reveal the warmth or clarity of what may flow forth.
Has the boiler been running? Are the pipes freezing? Could the aerator be clogged? Might the dried out spout be shedding scales; dehydrated mineral deposits, flaking away? Is the washer tight, allowing for flow control? Or, is the pressure building to unleash a furious blast?
I contemplate all possibilities. Consult manuals. Look for appropriate tools. And, finally, give the tap a turn…
This has been a most rewarding exercise in disciplined writing. The above is, possibly, the most intentionally crafted piece I have ever written. Almost ever word, chosen with the discernment, care and craft of a true artisan. Yesterday, an accomplished spoken word poet with whom I apprentice, told me that I do not need to learn anything. I am not blocked. I am a writer. Today, I truly believe her.
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