on the line

I’m having trouble coming back – to work, to writing, to stringing laundry across a thin rope in fall. I’m in a strange shifting stage – another morph perhaps, a skin shedding. I feel like I need to learn how to write all over again. Does anyone have a process that sticks – really sticks? Maybe I’m not settled yet in mine. Maybe it’s always changing as we are always changing? I’m going to try not to worry about it or the fact that I just used an gross amount of “to be” verbs. I am where I am.

Maybe I’ll get pumpkins today. The coffee in my mug seems viscous. Dissecting a gourd could be very cathartic. My cat likes pumpkin goop, which is a weird trait, but I slap it on a cookie tray as a snack.
I noticed yesterday how close we are to neighbors we hardly know. My underwear, the ridiculous number of cotton take tops I own, stained socks, a pit-stained white shirt in plain view on the line. We hide ineffectively.