Pre-Existence of the Soul

Once in a while life aligns, the universe cooperates - so that I have several days in a row to write.  For three days I didn't have to go to work, had no errands of significance to run, the groceries were stocked up, and I had no appointments, unexpected emergencies or mini-crises crop up.  The phone did not ring much either, and when it did it was pretty much good-ish news.  This sort of run can only happen, say, twice a year, maybe three times.

What can I say, but that this was bliss?  I awoke early, wrote.  Then the breakfast, dog walk ritual.  Then back to the computer for most of the morning.  But there was also time to sit in my window seat in the afternoons, drink diet coke, read, dream, scribble in a notebook.  I had time to follow strange paths, read about the pre-existence of souls.  In one book I read about the various incarnations in film and on stage of the Bluebird of Happiness.  I found the original on Project Gutenberg.  I watched snippets on YouTube. I downloaded the Betty Carter version of the song. Who knows if any of this has anything to do with the book I'm writing. 

I also took photos, which seems also to have nothing to do with what I'm writing.  But I do know that it sharpens my senses, rights my equilibrium.  To look at blossoms, the way they look through the bars of a birdcage hung in the tree.  I have a feeling that everything you do, see, that you are, will seep into a book that you spend a long time writing, revising. 

One of the books I dipped into was Fanny Howe's The Winter Sun.  I like what she says about revising:  "One way to understand your own condition is to write something and spend a long time revising it.  The errors, the hits and misses, the excess - erase them all.  Now read what you have rewritten out loud in front of some other people.  They will hear something that you didn't say aloud.  They will hear what was there before you began revising and even before the words were written down.  You won't hear anything but the humming of your own vocal cords." 

Today is the re-entry back into the world, back to work.  It's painful.  There is truly a tearing sensation, as I'm being torn from my real work.  This is fine.  I'm not one to waste such moments.  I'm resolved that this condition will be dormant, buried, humming, in some layer or other of the narrative I'm writing, even though you won't hear me describe it.