Yes my drafts are interesting. In fact I cannot think of a better, more native use for blogging than following a writer through her thinking–writing process. Let me put that a tad more honestly: a writer trying manfully (womanfully? no way) to follow her thinking, as, one foot out the door, it barely stops to wave bye.
I have not yet accepted that I will not live long enough to do justice to a piffle of these thoughts. Of all that I could do, were I as great as they, as that which would like to think through me, were I not such a weak and easily distracted instrument. Oh go find another fucking human, then, if you’re so fed up with me. Ha. Stuck with this manifestation, aren’t you.
You know, it’s not so much that we disappoint ourselves or each other, that’s not the real cloud we live under, not the real stinking-shit aspect of time, that rat-bastard.
It’s that life works against us. Life and time. We disappoint that which would be. The great ineffable. Call it what you will, let me know when you live up to it, ‘k? I don’t think so. My, what kindness we would show other human beings, what boundless room for empathy, were we all delivered, en masse, of our potential.
The blessing, the curse, of being human. It’s a fucker, alright. I, for one, haven’t even accepted that I was born in a body, which a good three-quarters of the time feels so lousy that I am sick to death of these constant reminders that it’s sojourn on the planet is going to be so over.
I think that’s enough for today. I know it is for me. You don’t think I knew what I was going to write, do you? Hell, no. This shit’ll turn round and bite you on the ass. Meaning will. It’s like letting the leash out on a slightly feral dog: you do it for the excitement, but keep an eye on that puppy. That’s all. I’m not saying, don’t go. I’m saying, like sex, it’s the only way to go. Being a part of what is still, in truth, wild.
I’m just saying, Give some thought to—nah, fuck preparation. Just, keep the bandaids handy. The tourniquet.
