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(looking for) the heartbreaker

It has been more than two months sitting at the little white table in the living room, writing. Pushing out pages, fixing these pages, living with these pages then waking up and chewing them apart again, then adding on a new section. It is a mill, grinding the raw ideas down to a fine powder that may somehow rise and become bread. Or it may not. So many thoughts begin with "what if". What if they get stuck in an old elevator? What if she is not home when they come the first time? What if she is coming back from the market and passes them on the stairs? What if the driver is older? Or younger? What if his brother shows up instead? The questions are greater than the results on the page, the dialogue is whittled down to nubs of something recognizable.

There are cold cups of coffee, emails that go unanswered. The light comes and goes, and most of the work is done in the dark in more ways than one. Cooking dinner helps. Playing some guitar helps. If you are not careful you forge…

Silver Street

Somehow, I am still there. We are taking a walk on Silver Street late in the afternoon. There are stray cats, and the sound of children playing. The smell of wood smoke, and fresh bread, of salt and coriander are wrapping around the parked cars, the crumbling walls, the peeling paint of Tbilisi. My stomach is still full from lunch. I just want coffee, cold and sweet. 

The streets are somehow familiar even though it has been a few years. My feet know the way, predicting the apartments around a corner. A balcony, some wash swinging in a low breeze. A courtyard lost in shadow. An old man with no shirt on carrying a bottle of wine. 

There is a rhythm to the days in Georgia. Yes, work gets done but somehow it feels so effortless. There are faces in the street that are not worried, or scared, not nervous, not looking at you out of the corner of their eye. Yes, the cars drive fast but I do not hear the angry bleat of a horn. I do not hear the ugly squeal of tires. I hear laughter, a breeze, a dog barking. 

Someone is selling raspberries. 


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