July 31, 2017: Watched a Youtube video of a talk from 2001 by *Ray Bradbury recommended on Facebook by a stranger named Pauline Probyn.
August 1, 2017: Woke up to a neon ball of orange as if a graphic on the cover of Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit 451 was plucked from the page and pasted onto the sky, your very own slice of sky, a single sky of a billion views.
Met artist for coffee. Artist in search of a home, artist who speaks eloquently about the devaluing of art and the desperation to achieve (needle in haystack in Lower Mainland), the base level of Maslow’s Hierarchy: shelter.
Go about day. Buy tabbouleh and falafel for lunch.
Read one piece of short fiction afterwards luxuriating in a rare ability to focus lately, completely.
Feel the space in device-free time.
Turn on computer in spite of last line.
Visualize my mother’s girlhood notebook from her Home Economics classes. Grade VII. Grade 8. Grade 9.
Recognize the feeling of an opening.
Visions of photographs taken from that black book, mixing with her perfectly straight handwriting, remnants of a lost way of life. 1940s.
Stirrings of inspiration.
Every heading in her ever-so-tidy handwriting a historically domestic tombstone.
|Duties of Dishwasher|
|Experiments in Potato Apparatus|
|Luncheon Creamed Vegetables|
|Preserving of Peaches|
Marvel at her achingly neat drawings.
Wonder about the 12, 13, 14 year old she was then. Internal brightening.
Letters and photos and possibilities collage across imagination as if I am spool knitting (corking, French knitting, Tomboy knitting) who she might have been back then onto the page.
This is how ideas come.
*I don’t agree with Ray Bradbury that “modern” writers can’t write short stories or poems or that we’re all looking for ourselves. Sometimes we’re looking for those who are completely foreign. But I listen to this through the lens of knowing to accept opinions in the context of the age, race, and gender of the opinion-giver.