speechless

longing to be a visual artist
words so tired, so poor, so arrested.
not sure what being a writer means any more.
without an attention span what's left?
recording for the sake of it
validating the alphabet
creating new syntax
for what?

the deeper resonances

In retrospect he finds it hard to believe he was actually capable of giving life... remote the more he thinks about it. The life force that seems to come of its own accord, free of premeditation or constraints. He wishes it was infectious, her vitality, her confidence, her devotion but knows she's paying a price she can’t afford. If anything, he has to give her more. He has to find a way.

remember me

don't know what's more important. memory or substance. as in, what do i remember in my conversation with my mother vs. what were we really talking about. and then, let's not forget this other dynamic that gets in the way. huh? the question? why? where? was i there? were you? love, love, love. that's what i keep reminding myself. all about love.

reality check

forget the paycheck. time for a reality check. to check in
and see what's really going on.

1. am i doing what i really want to be doing with my life?

2. if not, how can i redirect?

3. and with all that excess energy from doing what I want, how can
I help someone else do...whatever.

what if we were, no, are happy? what if...

in my right mind

Blown away by the read through, crippled after sitting for three days at my desk. SEPTEMBER 10TH is everything I hoped for, imagination at work- my raison d'etre, family as unpredictable as it is, love, true love and all its traps and trappings, compassion for our place in the world as precarious as it is, clinging at once to individuality, that thing that defines us and defies genetic imprints and to our collective identity, that singular force that encompasses everything, more than our individual consciousness affords. No escape. It's that big beautiful velvet stew of life on the edge. Of what? Time, meaning, existence. Even history can be false.