Tuesday, March 22, 2016
wind (the other day)
The writing is funny in the way it has only ever been funny when it is working and by that I mean something that is almost impossible to describe but perhaps it will become easier and easier to do. I hope, anyway. So the writing is funny in the sense that I think that the ideas float, they are available, and they are looking for a place to root and they come to me as they likely come to so many others and truly it is only my dedication (or lack thereof) that means I get to coax them and gently coddle them and water them and grow them and perhaps they will root and perhaps I will tend and then oh my gosh they are something.
And I can feel, if that's the case, the feeling that they have potential, perhaps the way that a parent feels with that new baby or a scientist feels with that supposition or a teacher feels with that certain student. The feeling of potential or maybe or perhaps.
I was trying to describe that feeling tonight to someone. This is terrible but perhaps it is easier, I had had a couple glasses of wine, perhaps it is easier with lubrication, with wine or with weed*, with too little sleep, with too much food, with a feeling of confidence or a feeling of precariousness, like that of standing on a ledge or in the wind, perhaps anyway it is easier to speak of those things that come and come and come again, those words and feelings and the stories. Those ones that live on the cusp, the edge, dangerously. How to explain, how they come and how I wield some control, but truthfully not much. Not much at all. The story is there and it is offered to me and I do my best but I don't own it nor do I control it. All I can offer is my abilities, by way, my words.
*weed is not my way but perhaps the way of another