I fell asleep and woke as if they were the trough and the rise of a wave that I rode.
After a sleepless night I am always catching up to get back to the full rest that I had just a few days away.
I like to be still and slow on the days when I feel as if I am walking through the molasses of a mind—and sticking to everything and cannot –be fast—as I would wish.
I feel I am moving towards freedom –and I am rushing through a past that was clot in the room. I often find—when I write –that I have worked through something—even though I might not understand at the time I was flinging globs of words from the hands to the walls—something was being taken up out of me and thrown there –to plate some story I am making—to make me see—and then I see—and then I can make a way.
A rhyme that is nonsense is not clear way and a complete country.
I am floating sometimes on a raft and often sinking.
But out of hemorrhaging words—I might find a space—cleared out in the attic of the mind where I can contemplate—a lie—or sit through a series of mistakes---or even see a cowardice and decide what to do about it—and if it all falls apart in my hands---I shrug—and say to myself—What can I do? This is real life and not the fantasy of a poem—I am making here—some sort of real—that is closest to non-fiction but more---some sort of poetical truth—and I can’t do this in full expression—and complete gene penetrance. I am walking slowly to the real life—of a nun—and out of this odd mixture—I am strongly inclined to add the globs of mud that is fantasy –and so –no wonder the language is unstrung---and the music I make is strange.
It is a rhyme with a hollow bone that is tapping at the surface of a mind that hasn’t learned to control itself –and self discipline will come as I work at story.