#95: Taking a Walk Because I Have Nothing to Write

Meandering my way out of writer's block

I’ve been trying to figure out what to write to you all week, so I finally take myself to the park. It’s so windy the waves are coming in sideways. Everything is at a diagonal — my hair, the palms, this pen.

I like watching the crows drop their feet beneath them, spreading out midair, hovering against the wind whipping up nothing but empty sky. One of them glides down to a treetop. Talons anchor to the wisp of an upper limb. She rides the branch on the wind like a surfer on a wave. Wings stretch, steadying herself. Tuck back into her breast once the gust subsides. I watch her on the tree, and I swear she watches me back. Crows recognize human faces. I wonder if she’ll remember mine.

I’m sitting in the grass now, back against a tree that keeps dropping seeds. One hits my shoe. It’s just occurred to me that if I were a dog, this would be an excellent place to piss. I’ll wash these jeans later.

The fronds are shaking in the wind, strobing the shade over my notebook. If you’re painting a mental picture, you’ll want to note I forgot a hair tie.

When I got dressed this morning — I’m lying — this afternoon, every fabric felt gross against my skin. Like there was some invisible film of blegh stitched between all the seams. Now the wind is tearing through textiles, separating them from my body in an air bubble of reprieve. It makes me want to jump in the pool at 9 in a Limited Too tankini to watch it balloon around me, letting the chlorinated elements in.

A boy’s hat just flew off backwards as he looked out over the sea. Sometimes the ocean looks like the ocean. Today, with the white caps tugged taught and the wind stretched across its surface, it looks like the sea. His dad missed it because he was on his phone. But I didn’t. I saw it arc up and over him. I saw the boy turn and laugh. Run to get it back.

There are other boys out over the fence. Perched on the bluffs, feet dangling over Highway 1 with an unobstructed view of the Pacific. They take swigs out of a bottle of “water” they’re passing between them, howling.

A younger boy kickstands his bike to climb one of the twisted Melaleucas trees gnarled just off the path. Another seed falls. This time lands in my lap. It’s hard to write through all this windswept hair anyway. Maybe that’s enough for now.

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Thanks for reading, even if it feels like a weird one!

I actually had an incredibly fruitful writing week with other projects. It’s not lost on me that when I’m wonderfully productive with other writing, this writing becomes more challenging. It’s almost like I don’t have an endless well of inspiration and productivity to bend to my every whim and will? Weird! I’ll have to put in a call to someone about that.

ily bye,

Ariana