Writing
isn't comfortable. Writing is a pain. Or at least it is still for me
today. Maybe one day, maybe soon, I'll be able to lightly tip toe to
my desk and type like a tinkerbell the sparkling thoughts that grace
my mind for the joy of all. Like a little goat, like a poet. For now,
writing requires my entire body. A few days of preparation without
saying it's preparation, late on schedule but compressing my soul
into whatever mood I am looking to attain, like a 3 legged dog
dragging her imaginary one under the cardboard moonlight, extending my nights
to reading and listening binges on the web, lying in my bed holding so much of my body the 1st days. Before I get the momentum. Writing is the anti activity, the anti health. I cook
badly, make too much coffee or tea, go for short walks, distracted, focused, manipulating my poor self until it becomes the black
circled wide eyed feeble recipient for my brain's games. It is when my
bones start to hurt, when I have to stretch, yawn and lie down too
often that I am finally ready to sit down and write.A back and forth between feeling low, being low, and using the accuracy to that feeling as a starting point, only movement of thought through my fingers and mastery of syntax to emotion will uplift me, excite me, enrage me, make me rant, jumping to boil the kettle, whistling hard and bursting out laughing. I try to control the up, not to come crashing back down, not to loose the delicate moment, but i do, it explodes, I crash, what a bloody mess!
