One thing I know for sure is that it's almost impossible for me to start anything like a race, including this writing exercise which started with the bang of me pressing start on the timer portion of the alarm clock in my phone and suddenly the room became silent except for the turning of pages, the tap of a keyboard, the scratching of my pencil on the paper of this notebook. Outside a bird can be heard, maybe two backyards away. The pitcher of lemonade rests nearby, perfuming the air with a sharp sweetness. Should we have looked at the Doisenau photos for inspiration? They're all so beautiful, each worthy of at least one story, at least a thousand words. Maybe next time, I console myself. And then the dog next door barks and I am aware again that there are things to be done, writing to be written. The clock ticks off the seconds - I glance over to see 11:11 - we're not even half way through our prompt.
Today I am slow. I am racing to write this. I double back and erase again and again - it's two steps back for every one ahead. I am not cut out for racing. Erasing yes, racing, no. My mind is racing and my hand is erasing.
I'm thinking about completely irrelevant things: A yard sale from last summer, its trinkets sitting on a table in a kitchen waiting to be picked up and loved again. Anthropomorphizing is silly. I know, but I do believe things have lives of their own and these particular ones, resting for the last time in this pine wood paneled kitchen with frilly valences and cupboards surrounded by the curly-cue details of the 1950s aesthetic from whence they sprung, well, these nicknacks look confused. This is the only home they've ever known and now a stranger in an apron wielding an ipad with a cash register app is circling overhead, making deals.
So, apparently that's what I think about when under duress: lost and lonely trinkets at the mercy of an auctioneer, awaiting an unknown fate. I'll take this little elephant - that I know for sure.
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