satisfied mind.

I am feeling very stubborn. I don't want to write and I definitely don't want to write anything particularly beautiful or inspiring. I want my fingers to do their thing, somewhat removed from my brain and beating heart. I want some words to spill out of me and be cut off. I want to cast them out.

For my sake, I've told myself that I can write anything tonight. I can write anything as long as it's something. No order no structure no meaning no censor just write write write. My pride resists being told what to do, it resists criticism and even encouragement. But someone very wise said to me last night, "Write about it, write about it, write about it." I dropped my eyes and mumbled, "Ok. But maybe I don't want to write about it, maybe I just want to talk about it."

But he knew that really, I wanted to write about it. Or needed to. Whatever.

I feel angry sometimes. Angry over injustice in the world, over the suffering that is ignored, over the hurt and pain caused in the name of money or religion. I feel sad sometimes. Sad because people die and life is sometimes dull and we can never accomplish all that we hope. I feel discouraged sometimes. I cry when I shouldn't, I procrastinate when I should work, I read books by writers who are not very good but seem to be making a lot of money. People that I love dearly are unhappy sometimes, they work too hard, they don't have the things that they want, they feel dissatisfied and incomplete. There are other people that I want to love, but I don't try hard enough. The man at the corner rattling the cup for change. The neighbor who never says hello. And others, just the people all around. We should be loving them all. I don't always do it.

doing.

Just about one month ago, I wrote about urge to stop and why you shouldn't. I ended with the reasons why I write, which are all changing and always different.

Two days ago, I had a conversation in a very loud Tex-Mex restaurant. It was a conversation about art, the reasons for art, the meaning to be found in life, the definition of truth. And how the rice was sort of bad.

These are things I think about often, perhaps even too much.

I was spurred on this last weekend because I read a comment somewhere, of course I don't remember where, arguing that the end goal of any piece of writing is to get at truth. In nonfiction, this is clear. And even fiction, or poetry, or any other writing - they are all trying to get at truth in their own ways. This is actually a way of thinking that, in the past, I very much ascribed to. Lately, I'm having some trouble getting myself there.

I have been hung up on this for sometime, but I'll say it yet again: I don't think I know what truth is. There is reality. As someone put it to me recently, there is the location and action of each atom at each moment. But perspective, human memory, awareness, imagination, all of it creates a world that is lots of gray and not much black and white. So what is this thing that we are trying to get at?

I question my motivations for writing. I don't mean that I question their validity, only that I question what they are. With each day, even each slow ticking hour, they change.

creative energy.

For the first time that I can remember, I have insomnia. I can't sleep. I don't just mean tonight, this night that I'm scribbling away at 3am. For the past few weeks, maybe even a month, I find myself hitting the lights and staring up at the black ceiling.

If you know me at all, you understand that this is strange. If you don't know me, let me tell you something about myself: I love to sleep. I wait until the last humanly possible moment to get out of bed in the morning. My roommates are well acquainted with my 10-minute morning dash from bathroomtokitchentofrontdoor. I'm also the person who unabashedly suggests that we go out at 6pm Friday night so that we can have dinner and some drinks and still be in bed by 11pm. I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't do sleep.

I can guess at the causes of this insomnia. One reason might be anxiety, usually in the form of What if I don't have a job? or What if I don't have enough money?

Another reason might be that, at certain points in life, you become very aware of changes as they happen. You can feel the rush of life passing. It isn't sadness or loss, just an acute sensation of yourself living your life. I get that sensation sometimes. Such moments I usually start narrating my own life in my head, which I think a character in one of Wendell Berry's novels also does, though I can't remember which one. She walked down the sidewalk. It had been another long day at work. She stepped on a leaf. You get the idea.

what you need.

Hello blog reader friends. Can I call you that?

When you're writing for a blog, or writing in general, it can be lonely. You're writing for other people to read, but you aren't there when they read it, so it feels very far away. There's a large disconnect in this grasping attempt at connection.

I can't give you something whole tonight. Can I give you the fragments I have?

I was thinking this weekend, I haven't written on the blog in awhile. Then I opened it to discover I haven't written in over two weeks. I am sorry, but my brain had to be devoted to other things. And you'll be happy to know I was writing, just not here.

Don't stop to think now. Don't stop to think about your failures or shortcomings. Don't stop to think. The moment I roll back on my haunches and raise my eyes to the ceiling, the moment I say to myself: What should I write next? then it's too late.

I have been thinking lately about the urge to structure and control time. I suffer at the mercy of this urge often, although I'm getting better at letting myself relax. Still, it takes a conscious effort. On a late Sunday afternoon, I'll start to feel a bit frantic and stressed and then I'll remind myself: You don't have to do anything.

and listening.

almost, but not quite. from lisamarigold on 8tracks.

a man.

This man is so pale, his hair so dark, that he's translucent. I look and see straight through him. I see the red bricks of the church and the unnameable damp color of the sidewalk. I look under his feet and see no footprint, no footstep, no sound.

He walks slowly. Not the slowness demanded by age or injury, a slowness marked by some deliberation. Each foot lifts, quickly, rises to the height of the step, and then hesitates. It is brief, but if you stare like I do, you'll see it. And so he walks just above the sidewalk. His steps dig into the air, catch, and hold there.

Something makes his image crawl through my brain. Something makes it impossible for me to forget.

Both times I saw him, he carried a package. Both times, I forgot to look closely to see what it was. In my mind's picture, he is carrying an indistinguishable brown box. Both times I saw him, he carried it with both hands, held firmly, squarely in front of his body.

I hope I see him again. One more look, I suppose, and all my questions will be answered. I won't tell you the answers though. You might wish to decide for yourself. You might know, already, what pain he has felt and what keeps him up at night, still, so many years later. You might know, already, what he carries and who he's taking it to. You might know, already.

You might wish to look for him yourself. He might be walking just behind you on another damp sidewalk. You might be looking straight through him without even noticing. Now that you know, maybe you'll see.