I wish that I could do THIS. Write and be organized. I wish that I could start from the beginning, tell you what happened, and then finish at the end. I wish that it made sense, that I were chronological, that I were logical.
Alas, it is I. I jump, weave, tumble, tunnel, and end up having to go back with my tale between my legs. I not only missed it, I forgot the point completely.
A lot is going on in the present. Yet, I am thinking of the past.
I am wondering if I will ever "write that book". If it is even humanely possible.
Would I need an elephant tranquilizer to quiet and slow myself into production?
Tonight, I am thinking about "the book".
I am thinking about the process and all of the parts that I cannot leave out. When is the last period dotted? The last thought grappled and freed? Is it for me or is it for an audience? Does anyone want to read a word of it?
I guess that is not important. It simmers, it boils, and it wants to come out. The stories, the images, and the imprints. I can hear voices, these memories are sharp. They want to come out and breath and be known. I will tell you and I will tell myself that is ok in the process.
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