It feels like forever since I’ve written anything.
Almost perfect, but not quite.
That’s one of the lines that kept popping into my head this past week. Almost perfect, but not quite.
And: There’s a bear in there, in the Frigidaire.
Somehow I’m stuck on Shel Silverstein. As I cleaned and painted our condo for its new tenants, these little fragments of silly poems kept grabbing my attention. I had copies of both A Light in the Attic and Where the Sidewalk Ends when I was a kid. I gave them away when I left home and really haven’t thought of them since. Maybe it is just the ungrounded feeling that moving creates that is making me want the comfort of these old books that my grandma gave me. That, honestly, as a kid, I didn’t even like all that much because I thought the drawings were ugly, and that if you were going to make a book, all the drawings should be pretty.
But now I’ve grown up. The things that have the most value quite often aren’t pretty, and they aren’t perfect.
And that’s the way I like it. Well, almost.