21 June 2005

It's Gershwin's Fault

We've all heard the song, or at least some variation on its opening lines: "Summertime, and the living's easy." Curse this lack of focus, this lack of writing professors standing behind me with the ruler of "Write-It-Down" slapping the palm of their hands.

I walk through this field billowing yellow and purple flowers, the color I've come to think of when I think of Ashland in late spring early summer. I pause to soak in the contrasting colors and tell myself I need to write about this. I need to write about the foundations of defunct railroad warehouses hiding beneath all the foliage. I need to write about the joys of watching nature overrun the industry of yore, leaving it to peek from below the beautiful oppression of plants, a footing poking just far enough to see cleaner skies.

In the meantime, I hear the blare of construction across the not-so-distant tracks...Ah, hell, I'm going to work early today, so I can write in that field.

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