• Sam Baker

Where I write

The short answer. Anywhere.


I am trying to get back to being a writer. taking notes. scatching things down on scraps of paper. talking into my phone.


I rarely harvest these notes. I don’t have a ritual yet. the gleaning of the note patch.


maybe it will come. Maybe not.


This morning I feel summer is coming. Its front edge. Humidity from the Gulf of Mexico swirling about lower to mid Texas. I face east. The sun would be in my eyes if it were not obscured by cedar trees. One bird dominates the orchestra today. My soloist. five double notes early. now six. Not atonal but not on the western twelve tone system either. I believe birds have their own tonal system. and it is very complex. What sounds to me as a replica call. the same call on repeat- has a thousand meanings. Finches understand finches. But I think finches understand when red wing blackbirds yell Cooper's hawk inbound! and I doubt very much they call it a coopers hawk. I am sure it is called something birdish. Something finch ish. Something red wing blackbird ish.


It is less important where I write although I do like the aesthetics of a good writing table. A blue sky blue table top seems to be helpful. A white candle in a red bowl always adds a certain panache. A raku deer with a hollow cheek is a good guide. A good go to sounding board.


“So what about that line raku deer?”


For the most part raku deer, who has echolalia like I do will say:


“So what about that line raku deer?”


And that gets me unstuck. On to the next line. The next paragraph.


It matters more that I write everyday. One of the gifts of the pandemic is that I have mornings free. So like one of those exploration ships stuck in the ice at the south pole, I break free. One inch at a time. I hear the cracking each morning. Crack crack crack. Sometimes there is no movement. Just cracking. And that is ok.


Cracking is progress. The hull is sound. I have plenty of food. Plenty of things to write about. Games are exhausted. Everything on nextflix has been watched. Not really but it feels that way.


Cracking is good. Cracking is my life now.


So I am living with these cracking sounds and the now mystery six double note soloist. Humid wind from the gulf and the knowledge that summer is going to be very hot.


But for this moment, I have a writing desk outside, a white candle burning in a red bowl, an old Mac that jumps all over the page when I type (with insane auto correct) and of course one raku deer.

“Good Morning Raku Deer!” I say.


“Good Morning Raku Deer!” replies the raku deer.