I really do have cold feet right now. Not because I'm hesitant about something but because it's cold outside and I'm barefoot. When I say cold I mean a bit of ice on the windshields of cars, but nothing too major. The sun is even shining. I can see it from my right side, where the window is. I'm sitting right in front of it, though I'd rather be facing it. That is not possible due to the radiator just below the window. When you do that, you make it so that writers cannot put their desks in front of the window. Facing out is what we want. Writers would never put radiators beneath windows. That's where our desk goes. The back is to the door and the door is closed, unless there's no one home. Then the door is wide open and it's quiet. Maybe a mower or two come the beginning of spring. Birds of course. The occasional cat fight. But besides that there is the sound, the clickety-clack of the keyboard, unless no words come, then it is more like a clicking-clacking. But seriously, how do no words come? There are always words. There are always thoughts. Even when you're trying not to think, you're thinking about that. And if there are no words, there must be words forming in your head that tell you there are no words. And those are words. Here begins 750 of them a day. Or a morning, rather. There will be more words later in the day. There are always words. There is writing here, and there is writing there. Always writing to be done. So far there are 279 of them just now. Make that over 280. See? That was easy. So there is this kind of writing, where you're throwing up and throwing out, just words coming and you're putting them down, and then there are the other kinds of words... the words that must form a cohesion should you wish to have others read them. Perhaps it's time others read every bloody thing you write. Even these words. Well, you're reading them, aren't you? There doesn't always have to be a story. There doesn't always need to be conflict. Words are comforting like that. They're just there, and people can do what they want with them. I'll have these kinds of words, and then I'll have others throughout the day. This is the part where I throw them out, I'm just jazz brushing on a snare, to my own tune, and there is no other music playing. The other words I make tell the story of a day-to-day life. Minute to minute, sometimes. A journal, a diary, jazz brushing with sheet music. Now I've got a song I must follow. Learn. I'm not just tip-tapping to practice, and I'm not just clickety-clacking to practice. Here I'm following the notes. Putting down into words what has happened in moves. And that goes in to a calendar, for safe-keeping. So when I'm asked what happened, I'll know. Not just when or where but what and why. Because of words I can look back and see exactly what I was doing around this time two years ago. And that can make me cry.

Bloody words.

But then there is the column. Here I have a beginning, a middle, and end. I use words to make sense, and to make others cry. Here all the practice comes into play. This stuff gets edited. It's the real deal. It's a gig at Carnegie Hall. I'm jazz brushing on the snare, keeping time, singing the song, and everything's working. Why? Well, you know it's because I've put in the time. The practice. All the words that have come before. All the tap-taps, slides and bounce on the snare. So now I'm in the moment, and it's an important one. How do I know because people are looking at me. They're looking at me because I'm bringin' it. Muscle memory takes care of the beat, and the words...? I let 'em come. They were always there, you see. Just waiting.

And a duck quacks. Or at least I think it's a duck. Quacking from outside my window off in the fields somewhere, though close. And that's to keep me from getting too serious. Too caught up. Too in the moment. So even when it's important, especially when it's most important, have a duck on hand. They're good for warming the feet as well.