Write, edit, add, edit, reduce, and remove everything that isn’t essential.
Mind – funhouse, horror-movie, and year-round oasis/asylum, unlocked by a keyboard, or simpler yet, paper and pencil, my cure-all for perils, pains, and regrets.
Some days, a too-deep dissection of my living body in front of witnesses.
It is that.
Other days, psycho-babble.
I hold 11th grade, 3-credit Psychology 20 credentials. Distracted by a pretty girl in the next row, I lacked courage to talk to her. I’ve made little progress since.
From thought to page, polished, and published, akin to one’s brain braising all day in a Dutch over, reduced to finely concentrated cuisine remains, the gritty sieved-out parts now discarded. What remains, served hot and breathy to hungry readers – planting erudite thought seeds in fertile soil, leaving them gasping, grasping, or groaning.
Bodies, facile vehicles for moving brains around.
Ultimately, life-worn corpus decays once our words and final breath are extracted.
We’ll leave-behind what our life was worth, nothing more.
We stew in our juices, human pressure-cookers without steam-release, until we explode, or, removed from heat, we cool down.
Paper, pencil, protection from all perils, cheapest therapy I know of – I write in the morning, polish in the evening – sometimes scrapping everything, starting over.
It gets late, I get tired, and that’s when I make grammatical blunders.
Or Freudian slips, so friends will catch them, then connect to tell me?
This writing daily column habit, somewhere between calling and addiction, channeled its way from fun thing to try, into daily self-examination, thinking aloud in my writing closet – aching for clarity to connect with someone.