The cursor is blinking again. So fucking loud. So fucking rude. They must call it a cursor because of the expletives it elicits when the word canvas is empty and the intercerebral ink well is dry.
| . . .| . . .| . . .| . . .| . . .| . . .| . . .| . . .|
on off on off on off on off
nag nag nag nag jab jab jab
You have to write something, Anna, and it has to be brilliant.
Cursor. Right. Let's call it a fucker.
And still it blinks.
I walked away from it and prepared the dough for tomorrow's biscuits. Tomorrow I suppose is really today [insert inspirational soliloquy about gratitude combined with somber acknowledgment of colonialism and smallpox in a tone that sounds woke]. I took a nap at 8pm and woke up at midnight to simmer and bake. The biscuits are mealy and the cranberry sauce is fantastic until that bitter aftertaste creeps in. All in all everything feels like failure and my level of inspiration these past few days has amounted to little more than a suppressed tantrum.
The cranberry sauce is a nice color, though. Rich red stain against the bland beige walls of my studio.
Plenty to be grateful for over here...
This is my entry for the #monomad challenge, held daily in the Black and White Community.
Give it a try...
Bitter, right?
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Crow featured is Bo.
Happy Thanksgiving.
