Wednesday, October 06, 2004


Oct. 6/04 0620

My dog is talking. Thick-tongued melodic sentences punctuated with yawn howls. Had she the knowlege of consonents, perhaps I would understand. She has a story.

I ran last night. Not the orderly march home after work, but movement in the dark,
as though my mind was riding the wind, my legs the earth. Is it like that for the dog?

The words come. They settle themselves on the page. Not mine. Not the dog's. Just words.

To stop the flow, of the dog, of the words, would be to settle them, to allow them to fall.

I wonder. This is writing.


brad said...

Great stuff Cathy. What a way to start your blog. From little things, big things grow. So I can't wait to see what comes next.
Good luck with it all and I look forward to regular readings.

Pat said...

Gawd we are so addicted......welcome to the great world of blogging Cathy, you are off to a great start.


Rita said...

Way to go, Cath .. I can just hear the 2 of you conversting. :) Blog on, gf!