Would That I Might

I would like to offer a bit more of an explanation about what I mean when I speak about context without content, as I explored last night.  As I said, this not an easy thing to really convey, but it is about the idea of a relationship, a pattern.  If one thinks about a pattern, it can often be made without regard for what is in the pattern.  One can make stripes using many types of objects, and still they are seen as stripes.  If I lay out paperclips from my desk in a pattern and you do the same with rubber bands, we will be able to see if our lines are in the same pattern, regardless of the supplies we each utilized.  But, what if we could find a way to communicate the stripe with no object, without anything but the concept of the stripe, of the pattern.  This may sound silly, but consider the idea of telling someone how to make the pattern, how it might be that you could describe the construction of the exact pattern, and you could have them do it with any object they have on hand, o

It Was Never An Expectation was not anything  I had thought would be tonight.  It was  wanted, was what I desired, but I was not considering it as anything to be found tonight.  Indeed, the times it has appeared, the times I have heard these offers, these words, it was never the truth. I had sought it before. Tonight, I entered with other thoughts, without any need for what came to be. What arose was more, was not as I expected. It would have been so even if I had known before, had imagined it for days, but this happened, unfolded without plan, was all magic, was the granting without needing to wish.

I spoke yesterday about how ideas can appear, how they can develop through small bursts and glimpses, and how it takes trust in this process to see them through. There are times when it can be impossible to even explain an idea, especially if the idea is inherently about a way of using language, or a type of storytelling. It can take a very long time for such things to come together in terms of a technique. I have spoken before about the notion of writing a piece without a clear narrative perspective, ungrounded in first, second, or third person. The first time that I caught a glimpse of this as an idea was during an eighth grade English class. I do not recall the specifics of how the idea came to me, but I recall discussing it with my then teacher. It was not fully formed, but just a thought about the idea that it might be possible to write something in a different way, without the traditional narrative person. It was not until decades later that I found a way to make this work in a s

The Few Things Done have made it better, the debris cleared, the whole space given brightness, restored with light once more. It was nothing to remove what did not belong, was nothing to replace what was broken, but I did not do it. It was nothing for you, was nothing when you were here besides me.

 There are times when I get a glimpse of an idea for some piece of writing that seems exciting to me.  Often these are very esoteric ideas, technical challenges or conceptually complex structures.  It is often only a moment or so when  I have clarity about these things, or maybe I never have a clear sense of them, just an idea of a possibility.  In some cases, these things come clearer over time and I can put them to use.  I wish I could find a process that felt more systematic, more in my control, but that is, in the end,  fantasy.  I know that the kinds of creative leaps I am often seeking result from insights that cannot be predicted.  All I can do is create the right conditions and keep to the work, waiting for things to come together.

I Have Been Hiding since you asked that I shift the perspective, have been avoiding it. I will come around, must come back to it, but I have been afraid. It is a good sign, I think, this fear, makes clear  there is a reason for what you ask

I am having a slow week, in terms of my writing.  I've been writing, but only around five poems a day, and not as much other work.  I need to get myself back to work on things, but it is sometimes difficult to do more. Still, I have to remember that I am still writing each day, that I am continuing.  Even when I am not living up to the standards I would like to uphold, I am continuing on.  It might be easier if I felt a sense of progress with the work, with my career goals and such, or even in terms of seeing something truly new in the work itself.

Why Keep Those Promises that were offered to those we cannot trust, who already are causing harm, why keep those promises when others who deserve more, who are in need of more, who are our allies, to whom we have made other promises, why keep our word when it only means they will be made to suffer?

 I have gotten to a point where I can write most any time.  It can still be a struggle to get myself to work, or to begin, but generally speaking, I am not dependent on any particular stroke of inspiration.  At the same time, I often find that it is difficult to direct my work.  I mean, I can't always choose to write about some particular thing on demand.  If I have an idea that is in mind, it may well work out, but I often will have a thought that I want to be able to write about some subject or event, and find it does not work out.  I might begin to aim towards that topic and find myself writing something else entirely.  I recognize that this is silly, and probably just a mental game I am playing with myself, as I have written many things for specific assignments or purposes.  It is a mental block, but I also wonder if it might not be positive in some ways.  I mean, I do have things that I want to write, but I am also excited when my work takes its own shape, and many times the t

I Assume It Was Accidental It is clear the intent  was not harm, it is obvious, is known. Everyone knows, the goal was positive. You did not know, did not mean to cause pain, to draw from hate, from symbols and imagery with darkness you did not recognize. It was not intended, but it is still so. Both are true, the question is: what will you say is your responsibility?

This evening I attended a playwrighting workshop, during which I wrote a short scene that seems intriguing.  More than the scene, though, the approach in it opened up a process for me that I think I can follow towards things that I might want to write.  I know that there are opportunities for me to get a play on stage, if I can write a good enough piece.  I need to do some work in that direction, to prepare to take advantage of these opportunities.

Prioritizing I have chosen to do this, but I will not do that, not tonight.  It will wait, will be ready for doing when the morning is here. Tonight, though, will be gone and that matters more.

 I am seeing my therapist tomorrow and will be sharing the first portion of my project with her.  I am rather nervous about it.  I don't know what the nervousness is about, exactly, if I am honest.  I don't think I revealed anything directly that I am not comfortable talking about, in fact, I feel it doesn't really get personal or revealing in most ways.  I must be unveiling something that is intimate, though, or I must believe I have...  I don't know, it may be meaningless, may be nothing.  I believe that is not the case, that the feeling that is possible is just a way of hiding from myself what is really happening.  I don't know if the doctor is prepared for my writing, but I think she knows me well enough, at this point, to have some sense of what to expect...

Laziness Poem The drink I want is far off in the garage: I do not want to go down and through the house to that place unless I am not returning. It is not so far, not in truth, but it is hot and I fear if I make that journey I will be tempted away from my desk, from returning. So, I will say it is too far, will imagine it is easier to remain parched.

 It is already after two in the morning.  I've been writing for the last several hours, attempting to get through my planned work for the day.  In truth, I hadn't even realized how late it was until I got to this point, writing this blog entry.  Most of the work was writing poems, and it is easy to go from one poem to another, for me, without stopping to think.  I get into a rhythm or a mode, and I just keep going.  Switching to writing this prose journal, however, requires a shift in thinking, and it was when I made that shift that I realized the time, and recognized just how tired I am.  Maybe I was not actually tired before, since I didn't notice it, maybe writing poems brings me into a state where tiredness is irrelevant.  I don't really think so, to be honest.  I just think it was momentum, and that I am babbling here because I am tired.  Maybe I was babbling in some of those poems, but that can work well, at times, in certain poems at least.  What does any of that

They Did Not Fear Change but centered around it, made it the heart, the core.  Change would feed it all. It was inevitable, they knew, but others would have fought. It was accepted. They accepted it. It is the difference. Each time, their was more, was a new chance, a starting.  It took, but what came was also a gift. The loss was balanced. It could have been otherwise, could have been feared, all efforts put towards avoidance, though it was inevitable (how many try avoiding inevitabilities?). It was accepted, was understood and accepted, the opportunities pursued in spite of any losses.

As I am working on my new project, I am finding that I am still spinning about, in many ways, attempting to find footing with discussing things.  I think I am getting towards it, and I feel that what I am writing is meaningful, if indirect, but I know that a part of the goal, for me at least, is in transforming to be able to put more real that is direct and concrete on the page, to make the work more relatable, and to also be comfortable with myself in ways that I am not.  I am hiding.  So often that is the truth, and I don't want to keep doing it, but it is the habit I have.  I am writing this now, and it is honest, but it does not say much more than just what is true in this moment.  I am not shy about revealing things, will talk openly about them, but when I try to write, I often go in strange directions.  It might not be an issue, I suppose, but it feels like one to me.  I don't want to change the style or anything, do not want to be writing things that are less my own in s

I Should Have Called Him by Now but I forget.  Each day, I think: I should call him, but not at the time when it would be best to call, only earlier, when it would be easier, when it would be good for me. He wants me to call after, to call in the evening, but I do not think of it, not when it is convenient for him.  Why do I listen? Why am I the one calling him? Didn't he start this, begged and cajoled? Why do I still think I am the one who must adjust?

 I wish that I felt more secure about submitting work.  I do not mean in terms of getting acceptances, but in the process of sending the work out, about the various details of that process which seem so daunting to navigate.  It does not help at all that I am often wondering if I really am worried about things that exist or if it is some sort of delusion, a learned helplessness or just fear.  The fear, I believe, is legitimate.  I've had experiences where I am certain a small mistake cost me.  I cannot say, of course, the outcome that would have resulted in other cases, but I can be certain that my errors harmed me, prevented me from having any chance at all.  The point is, I worry that I will make a big mistake.  Even more than just making errors in submitting, I worry about keeping track of it all, making certain that I have appropriate records of where the work has been sent and what is going on with it.  All of these things I do not feel particularly equipped to do without diff

I See You Now The choice to come here was not simple, was done because I trusted you, but now, you allow this? They act to harm, to confuse and ensnare, and you allow it here, in this place that is yours. I had thought you would not, would be against this, but you allow it, will offer no advice, no help, only turn me away, tell me if I wish  to avoid this conniving I should go elsewhere. You will do nothing. I though you were different, but I have always been a fool.

 It has been some time since I did this, but I am exhausted enough right now that I just want to record that I have finished my writing for the day.   I wrote a number of new poems and did quite a bit more work on my new project as well.  I am glad to be motivated right now, and wish I had more energy to put towards this blog tonight, but sometimes it has to be enough to know you did the work, even if just the minimum.

Offering Help It was a small frog, so tiny it could have sat  on the nail of my pinky finger, swimming with panic about the edge of the pool, attempting to reach purchase s it could escape, and it seemed good, seemed to be helping it, giving it a lift to the ground, but it was the lizard who appeared at that moment and devoured the tiny frog who gave a look of tbanks.

I spent quite a bit of time tonight working on some prose for the new project that I mentioned last night.  I'm hesitant, still, to say too much, as it is a private thing right now, and most of my interest in it is about what it represents on a personal level.  It isn't really a professional thing, at least not now, but maybe it will result in something of value, in that regard, down the line.  To be honest, it is a sort of therapeutic writing project, a way of putting my artistry to work in the service of literal efforts to grow as a person.  I believe that I have mentioned that I began working with a therapist, first in conjunction with my brother, but later seeing her more on my own.  As that process has continued, I've been finding it helpful, but I also recognize that I am butting up against aspects of practical reality.  I've been spinning around with the problems of publishing and the issues in my family, and the reality that I don't believe things can get mu

Reflections over A Glass of Room Temperature Water Nothing that can be drank here is cold and we have no ice either.  I am hot, have been sitting in the heat, and nothing cold is waiting. I should have prepared, should have taken steps: placed water in a glass, loaded it into the cave of my fridge, but I did nothing.  I knew. I did nothing though. Perhaps it was my intent to have a reason I could complain.

 I started a new project today, but I am not comfortable describing much about it here at the moment.  It is a personal project that I am not even certain will ever be intended for general consumption, but it is still an important project, and one I am writing as a way of communicating with myself as much as with others.  It is something I expect to be working on for some time, and I hope I will begin to be more confident about revealing more about this rather intimate writing.

Getting Help It was a good thing to tell her, to share the idea that had formed and ask for her input, her partnership. It is putting this to use, turning it into a process that makes sense, that includes those parts, includes the bits that are only present in the places she has been invited to enter. Even now, when there is fear, that is only the knowledge this may bring change, may work to bring forth the changes I desire.

 Part of what always kicks a story into gear for me as a writer is a technical perspective, a challenge in the way I want to tell the story.  The experience of the reader matters a great deal to me, not only the story but how it is perceived.  I don't know how to explain this, or if it is something that is common to all writers.  The story I am conceiving at the moment, and which I want to start writing very soon has an element, for example, that involves the concept of things that cannot be remembered, of a whole layer of the world that is not experienced because it can't be remembered, and I think I have a way to connect with that which will create a unique experience for the reader.  I am close to getting it on paper

They Pressed Too Far in the direction of creating a hero, crafting more from the small fragments that the tale contained. They pressed too far: what would have been of it had not ended so soon; what might it have become. They had to press on, had turn towards hope, it was beyond reason, was not acceptable. That is what was always said. That was what always would be, but they pressed.  It was too far, they pressed too far for the resistance to stand.

There are times when a story starts to coalesce, and I am always excited, but I also know it is never certain.   I have many unfinished stories, and even more that never even made there start on the page.  I have an idea in mind that excites me quite a bit.  I have a sense of how to make certain it gets done, but it is nothing more than just committing and doing the work.

 In Dreams, There Is Always Someone Who Is Lost or it is something that is lost.  It could be you or a stranger, or the car, the house.   It is often me, wandering, wanting to know where I am, to find anything familiar. I only find myself when I get back to my bed.

 I wish it were easier for me to organize my ideas, but note-taking and outlining are alienating processes for me.  I can assemble the work in my mind, at least with fiction, but when the goal is to write an essay or any kind of work that draws on specific references and citation, I am overwhelmed.  I can just write the ideas out, of course, but I would need help to make certain I was keeping things straight and including the proper information, and those are things that daunt me.  In some sense, for me, the necessities of an academic work rely upon skills that feel lacking and which I fear do not align with the capacities of my cognition.

It Has Gained All It Might and now is silenced so there may be rest before the action, a calm in which to wait. It will be important to have had restoration, to be filled and full. Depletion is coming, best it be met with enough to spare.

I so many things I want to write about, but it is often difficult to do it.  I want to write about my disability, about being fat, about being sexually assaulted by another boy in high school, about the time a student in a class I was teaching made an accusation of blood libel and how the school refused to make a comment, but I get scared.  I worry I won't be heard, that I will speak of something that matters so deeply and no one will hear me or care, or, worse, will respond with refutation or denial.  Even when I think of my Dracula essay, that fear comes forward.  I am willing to take the risk, at least I think I am, but when I go to write, often I will freeze.  I need to keep going, to push through these feelings, but I am not certain how.  Perhaps, as I have heard in similar situations, acknowledging my difficulty s the first step in that process.

He Was An Obstacle would not allow preparations, denied the need, forced his way, and when it came time, when crisis came, he just walked away, abandoned her, though he will speak still of his love. He left, fled.  He went to Mansfield without even cleaning out the fridge. The empty house filled with flies, squirrels, rats.  We paid for the repairs. Tomorrow he will come to take more away.  He thinks it is right, does not know anything at all of what is true, of the type of man we know him to be despite his own ignorance on the matter.

 I work quite hard on my writing.  It is a daily labor, a constant effort.  It does not come easily: I often need to force myself to do the work.  It is work.  It is work I must do, though it often feels it will go unrewarded.  I do not know how to dismiss the need for remuneration, for evidence that my efforts have value and are not just vanity.  I work hard each day and I want to believe I will see a return for this dedication to my craft, but I know it is never certain.  That awareness does not change my want for some degree of success, for a sense that I am not just creating for myself, but that what I write has meaning and value for others.  Is there a way to be satisfied with doing the work, with knowing g my own effort, or will that always leave me wanting?  I do not even want to accept the possibility; it feels wrong to me to write without an audience, without being able to share my writing with an appreciative audience.  It is not only that I do not want to feel that my effort

 Was It A Warning? You told me once that nothing of merit remains uncounted, that genius is not dismissed, is always discovered, that great work  gains appreciation in the end, though it may come after the one responsible can even know what they have done.

 There are times when I wish I were better at being plain and straightforward with my writing, but I find myself always drawn towards more sidereal approaches.  In some ways, i think it is a product of my own experience of language, the ways I experience the linguistic process as a dyslexic.  Language is not inert, does not sit still on the page or in the mind: how can I make it a nail to hold down a single truth when that is never my experience of it.  I can see that others are able to use words as the simple tool of communication, but it is never what I find present for me.  I believe in the work that results from my non-standard experience of language, but I also see that it might be easier for me if my work could do things that are more typical, more expected.  I believe in this work, that my writing is pushing limits and exploring language's potential, but there are ways that is a limitation I wish I were better at straining against.

 The Hygienist comments that my teeth are well cleaned in back but not as well brushed in the front.  It is odd to her, opposite to what is typical. "It is easy to brush the front, the back is harder."  Not for me. I try to explain, the difficulties, the discrepancies of coordination. She does not understand, does not even listen.  It makes no sense. I cannot explain it will, but if I could, I am sure she would not listen.  

Tonight's writing session seemed rather difficult and I am not entirely pleased with the output.  I think it is just a matter of my being tired tonight, and I know that it is unavoidable to have these days.  It is impossible to be on all the time, and I have felt quite good about a great deal of my recent work, so it was bound to happen.  Tonight, doing the work despite my lack of inspiration was a victory, even if none of what I produced will make it beyond the failed first draft, and it is always possible that a piece which seems totally lacking can be revised into something spectacular.

Before Acceptance I think it is empty, all spent out, an empty shell with no use left, but I still try, again and again, uncertainty driving my hope long after it is clear nothing remains.

 I am trying to remain glad about the acceptance without seeing it as all that important.  It matters, of course, and I am hoping it is a sign of some more positive luck, but it is still a small step.  Keeping perspective is difficult when things are so skewed.  I mean, I don't have any reason to expect another acceptance right now, but it is hard not to hope for some momentum.  It has changed things for me in terms of some aspects of my outlook, as it does represent the reality that my work has merits an editor might appreciate enough to publish it.  That is a thing I didn't necessarily believe, despite believing in my work itself, and I hope that this shift in perspective opens me in my process, which might be as important for my career as getting the work out there, and might even be facilitate that, depending on the directions that my work takes.

Indecision It would be simple if their were better choices, not just the old options, not repetitions and redundancies, both and all, which seems a lot, but it is only a lot of one thing, a lot of what is not anything at all, is one thing in disguise next to itself. If other choices were available, the choice could be made, but not when it is no choice at all.

 Excited to share that I have received my first acceptance in a very long while.  A poem was accepted for inclusion in the forthcoming Running with Water anthology from V Press LC.  I am very excited and hope this marks a positive turn for my publishing fortunes, but even if not, it means a great deal to have more work in the world, even just a single poem.

I Do Not Have A Flame Tonight, no torch, no candle.  It is dark. I cannot light anything, but tomorrow, maybe, there may be a chance I will find what is needed, will renew myself before another night of darkness.

I have been very pleased with a lot of the poems I am producing at the moment.  I think this does come from writing each day, and from the amount I write.  There are many writers who have a want for some sense of comfort, and that may do well for them, but for me, I need to instill a sense of discipline, at least in a certain sense.  I believe in the concept of inspiration, but I don't think it is always enough, and I think it often is a thing that comes from being conscripted, from the pressure it is put under.  I don't think that pressure is always bad or external.  It needn't just be a looming deadline from an assignment, but can be imposed on the self in ways.  I write each day, and I am shocked by what comes out when I don't know what to write.  At times, it is a real surprise to me and I discover things I did not understand about my own experiences.  It is not a tame process, and so I need to build order around it, to contain it, and also to allow me to have acces

I Did Not Know It Was The Same, that you would remember it, small thing, a detail out of my life, but yours as well, and I never knew, never asked or thought, no.  I do not think it is strange I did not ask, it can't be strange, but it is strange to know another and not know what is the same, to not recognize it. Or is it always true, is there always a convergence, a small thing, a detail so personal, specific, a thing it seems impossible another could know too, could have experienced as you once did. Imagine if it is that way, if their is always something, no matter who it is, Elizabeth who is Queen or a guy living under the bridge along the Bowery, the waitress and the bad tipper, the businessmen fighting for a client. Any two people. It could be, thinking about it, it could be that way, with so much in each of us, with so many specifics, the miracle may be finding the right one.

I have been working to reform my daily writing routine so it is more flexible for me, while still pushing me to do the work each day.  At present, I have a sort of rhythm.  I think of it as a sort of rhythm, at least, but that may not make real sense to anyone else.  In effect, I've got three general writing sessions in mind, with the most important being in the evening, and the next most in the morning.  I have a third in the afternoon or later in the morning, depending on my schedule, but it is not something I am insistent upon.  Some days I will write in the morning and evening, and some I will also write in the afternoon.  I tend to write around five poems in each session (if it is poetry.  Fiction is not as cut and dry).  If I skip the morning, as sometimes happens, I try to make it up in the afternoon, but if not, I will do extra writing in the evening.  Most days of late, I've been getting the morning session done, and often the afternoon as well.  I feel like I need to

It Caused A Result, an outcome, it creates conditions that are to come, builds the future, shapes it, defines an identity, makes, changes things until it has made what it makes of what it gets, and it made this, and this is here, and it made it, made it from what was offered, made promises first to make this choice, to convince, to be clear what was being shaped would have a good shape, a needed shape, a shape to be admired, to be useful, to be part of a world of shapes, and now, it has made the thing, has shaped the thing, and the shape that remains is what exists now, is all that thing can be, and it only demands the promises made, the reasoning it was given when it still had choice, it only wants what was said to still be true. It cannot undo its transformation, it only wants to have chosen wisely.

I have been paused on that new story I mentioned working on a few days ago.  I have a lot of it in mind, but not yet in a form that is ready for language, if that is a sensible way to put it.  I don't have it organized into a linear set of ideas, or even a concrete concept of the plot in full.  Things tend to swell and spin a bit when I think in terms of fiction.  I think a lot of that is because of difficulties I have in traditional forms of organizing concepts.  I can write an outline, for example, but not as a tool to order my thoughts, as a form of description for what I already have worked out.  By the time I reach that point in understanding the story, the outline isn't so useful anyway.  It is very hard to explain a story for me, because so much of it becomes the form it takes, becomes inextricably about the telling as part of that tale, and I think this grows from my neuro-diversity, from the way my mind organizes information.  Again, I can't define that organizatio

It Calls Its Ache into me, again.  I should find a way  to heal it, a way to be better. I should find one. It is not  a thing  I have looked for, but I should look, but I do not. I am afraid what can be found will not be solutions but only others, not answers only company who offer pain of their own.

 In looking back over my writing, I see so much that is different in the character of my work at present.  I always had a surrealist bent, but it was far more narrative and direct, now I am writing more that is imagistic and moves by other kinds of logic.  I am very fond of many of these strange little compositions, but I do wonder when my work will begin shifting again, and it what direction.  Of course, it is a continually process and probably happening already in ways I am not prepared to notice just yet.  

Testing The need for answers is great enough to accept the ordeal, all of it, all that it entails will be taken on in hope of answers, though they are not assured: no other way  even brings this chance.

The rejections keep accumulating this week, as I had expected.  It is very strange, the patterns of their arrival, or seems that way to me.  I am sure it is not all that significant,  but it can feel that way.  Some weeks I get no responses, and others I get one after and other; it is easy to draw an association.  As said before, I suspect it is just random, or, at most, a matter of publishing and the calendar that this industry follows.  It doesn't really matter, of course.  It is kind of unfortunate to get a bunch of rejections all at once, but I am not certain a single rejection every few days, instead, would feel much better.

The Emptiness Wants to Be Filled waits to not be an absence, to be full instead.   It desires to be more, to not be nothing but to contain, to have.   It has needs, because it is empty it wants to be another thing, wants to be anything that is not nothing. It wants filling, wants to be not empty.

I have gotten back into the habit of writing in the morning again, and am writing around ten poems most days, at the moment.  As usual, I will have to say that most of these are not anything great, and they all need some degree or another of editing, but I am still glad to be back in a more productive mode.  At least, I am mostly pleased to be writing more again, but I do have a small part of me that watches the amount of work I have pile up and considers my failure to get anything in print in so long.  There is something that feels unhealthy about having so much work, having it building up like a dragon's horde, and I must admit, as well, a feeling that I putting all this energy in with nothing to show for it.  It feels like courting failure, in some sense.  At the same time, I have no real choice.  In a literal sense, I could choose to stop, I know, and I am not doing well handling my current situation, if I am honest, but to not be writing, to be defeated by this failure, that w

Tell The Spoon It Should Not Fall Remind it of the proper way for it to be.  It has a place, a role.  It is best if it remember. The spoon should behave. It is not the fork or knife, is not at all a napkin. Why it should think it has any place falling, that is telling. Discipline is needed. Make certain it learns. Make quite sure the spoon knows before any repetition.

This week I have been receiving a bunch of rejections.  It is strange how it comes in clumps, but that may just be a result of journals being on similar schedules, or responding to the same things in general.  I know that other writers experience this as well.  Of course, it could be truly random, and just a matter of observation.  When only one rejection appears, it is not noted as being odd, but when a bunch arrive together, it seems significant, and so it is remembered as how these things happen, even though single rejections arrive with similar regularity.  I don't know and have not studied the matter in depth, I only know that this week I've had several rejections already, and am anticipating the pattern will continue.  It would be nice to feel I might get an acceptance, of course, and I try to keep that hope going, but it is somewhat difficult to believe after more than a hundred rejections in a row.  I will have to see, maybe it will change tomorrow.  It is certainly pos

I Did Not Ask though I would, most times I would ask, but I did not, not this time. It was not different, I had no  reason, I just did not. I do not know why I do ask, why it is I want to ask, want your say, why would I know the reason better when I do not ask?

I have a very good sense of how the story I want to write should begin, not only a first line, but a paragraph or so that is, if not yet worded fully, ordered in terms of the images and ideas.  The language is shaping itself in my mind, though I've not yet started to put it on paper.  Right now, the issue is more that I have less certainty about the middle of the story.  I've some sense of an ending, at least in terms of the general trajectory of the story, the path it should be taking and where it should end, in a generic sense, but to know what that all means in the specifics of this story, I first need to get past this initial set of events and discover more.  Tomorrow, I should start putting things on paper.  I think that, as I get through what I am certain about already, I can start to feel out the rest more easily.  Maybe it is already waiting to be revealed during the process of writing, or maybe it will be conceived of on the fly, but in either case, the act of writing

We Must Go but it will be dangerous, it will be unsafe being there, being gone, travelling.  We must go, must make the journey, we are obligated and is needed: you need this, I know it is necessary. But I do not relish it, I am not glad to risk ourselves, though I am willing, am prepared. For you, I am prepared.

 I am playing with an idea for another story.  At the moment, I have a strong idea of how to begin it, and the general premise is one that I have had in mind for a while.  It is a fairly straightforward sort of tale, in that it follows a fairly familiar shape with a plot that hits a lot of typical beats, at least in terms of what I have clear in my mind now.  At the same time, the details feel fresh to me, and I have a sense that it is more about those things, about reframing a standard plot into something different.  The specifics are still not entirely clear, but I think that I am going to begin work tomorrow, with the idea that the work itself will help me to discover the rest.

Life Here There was not time for settling in before the world moved, even before it began, as it was beginning, we were overwhelmed, and afterwards  there was more, was only worse, a tragedy stalked in, and then, absence, and then too much that came too close, disregard, dismissal, again and again. And still, we are here, in the unfinished emptiness, at least together, at least still it is not only either one.