Words are amazing. In an instant they can conjure up the warm, vibrant scenes of a moroccan market on a grey, dull day, stuck in front of a computer screen.
Words saddle-up and enter the sensorial corrals of the mind, spinning tiny lasso’s above their heads. The word rose, shouts yee-hah! heading straight for a memory from two summers ago; a delicate pink mass of petals you filtered and posted on Instagram. The flowers’ imposing, floral scent, made you woozy; and now as you read this, its’ sweetness, again fills your nostrils.
So too the word, dog poop. Now there’s a few memories to rope in. The family mystery of who tread in it after a walk in the park. The dawning realisation of its’ presence when it gives way in a pile of autumn leaves. The squelch and release of a potent, eye watering, carnivorous stench.
Bet you’re looking for a metaphorical grass verge to wipe your shoes on now, I know I am.
So what’s my dilemma? Well the question is; would this wild west spectacular have been better utilised in a poem or work of fiction? Does maintaining a blog keep me from ‘proper’ writing?
I’m on the fence on this one. Looking in at my memories sending up clouds of dust like wild mustangs.
I can’t keep them in there forever, a corral is only temporary. So do I load them up onto my blog?
Or open the gate and set them free on a foolscap prairie?