Dust dust dust

I don't feel the rush to write today, that yummy energy that comes with juicy ideas . . . but I've got to do it anyway. I have ten minutes before I have to get ready for class and, damn it, I'm going to keep myself sharp . . . always keeping myself sharp.

Here are some thoughts.

Ash Wednesday is a funny day. I never know about it until I see people with greasy grey crosses etched in their foreheads. For a moment I almost say to them, Hey, you've got something just—there. I imagine rubbing it off with a singular, hard stroke of my thumb. Then I realize, and I think Oh, that's nice, that's pretty cool—And isn't it a great thing that your religion gives you this one day where everyone can do face paint?

I remember catching moths when I was young, until one day someone said to be careful. Be careful, they said. If you rub the dust off their wings they will no longer be able to fly. I imagined a magic, invisible powder coating the moth's papery pinions and when I caught them I was gentle. I would cup them in my hand and feel their fluttering little bodies dusting my palms and I would tell them to be still—don't rub it off, you won't be able to fly anymore.

I feel like I'm building images for later. Or for now. Who knows what they're for? And are they any good? And what are they worth? And how much could they really be worth, me sitting here ten minutes before class tossing them up lazily on the page in a few quick strokes. One day, I hope to be like Picasso. Once a woman asked Picasso for a sketch. He said, Sure, and after he had sketched something up he told her it would cost $10,000. The woman was astounded, said, But that didn't even take you five minutes! Isn't $10,000 too much for five minutes of work? And Picasso said, My friend, it took me thirty years to learn how to do that in five minutes.

One day I want to be like that. Which will take practice. Which will take effort. Which will take a lot of episodes of me sitting down to write when I don't want to for the sake of getting better.