Alphabet Soup

Sitting in my nearly-sunny writing room, I'm feeling as if the words are as tangled as this—not coming clear.

My mind is still feeling dyslexic, or dysgeometrical, after working on a series of collages set on the diagonal—having to figure out how to cut the pieces to fit into odd-shaped spaces.  

And then last night it was thrown for another loop when we were asked in class to make a sheet of music look like it was not music.  I have decorative borders made from treble clefs, and from flats; disjointed notes sprinkled across the white space like poppy seeds on Danish tebirkes.  (Or like a page of cut-up music, imperfectly disguised.) Somehow the whole thing was upsetting.  I prefer my music as it was meant to be.

And the letters forming some recognizable words, syllables. Incoherence leaves me not myself.

But I am cooking a chicken with Greek herbs in the slow cooker, and drinking Earl Grey tea from my Italian mug; and sometime soon my mind will settle.  The tangled words will clear.  Will read me out as I, without these cognitive upsets, was meant to be.  My music whole again.



image:  Christie B. Cochrell, Word Sculpture, Treviso