- How the grinder sounds at Philz coffee in the Castro
- The windchimes outside the bakery on 9th Avenue
- The squeal and shift of the 6 and 33 on their overhead rails
- The music of the prose of Isabel Allende
- The hush of traffic while I walked to pick up laundry
- The instruments of the Mission
Listening seemed important. I spent a year talking in this blog on a daily basis, and a series of months talking at work (there to no avail). Suddenly the well ran dry, with no pooling back of the water table, and I realized that someone was trying to tell me something. I could Shut Up & Write, I had proven that. But what to write about? Often, I felt as though I wrote to hear myself speak.
I love the sound and feel, warp and woof of words. But alliteration or assonance or lyricism for lyricism's sake was looking good and feeling empty. I am wonderfully capable of writing a readable first draft. The trick now was writing something that I wanted to take the time to shape.
To do that, I would have to start reaping the fruits of where I am.
So I listen to the City. I listen to the trains. I slow down and chew slowly on books, music, news of little attention.
Ssssshhhhhhhh...I can hear you, now.