Linda Davick
This is the fifth week of my writing class. We're given daily prompts, and today the prompt was Intently. Good grief!
Every day we write for 10 minutes–12 minutes max–and hit the send button. Our writing partner changes every week. This was my piece today.
You can't really TRY to do anything intently, can you. It's something that just comes on its own.
I try to meditate sometimes. I try to pray. I try to use ActionScript without e-mailing Sally for help every step of the way.
When I'm shooting photos, I'm intent. All the world funnels down into one end of the lens and seeps out on the other side. Who's walking by? It doesn't matter. Once in a while a dog will put his nose in the picture. I'm mainly shooting rocks and bits of plastic. When I use the macro setting the intentliness intensifies. When I get home and hook up the camera and all the photos spill out into my screen, I'm intent. Sometimes I can see the tiny photos all at once and even if there are 60 or 70, pick out the best instantly.
But I'm not often intent.
I wasn't intent at dinner tonight. I ate the Trader Joe's Chicken Chile Verde (both servings) on rice, and some carrots, and half a pear, and a tangerine, and a margarita ... then I completely lost all focus and pulled out a chocolate Ritter Sport bar and a bag of salted peanuts, which I mixed with Trader Joe's oriental rice crackers. I poured some leftover coffee from breakfast in a cup, and pretended to read my Alexander McCall Smith book intently so I could keep eating mindlessly. That's one of the bad things about being the person who cleans up, as opposed to the one who cooks. You tend to not be intent on finishing your meal, because you know you have to clean up when it's over.
