Man, I've written some odd things. Sometimes little bits of science fictiony prose poems or what might be paragraphs of stories unwritten. Late night visions written so as not to be forgotten; forgotten. Odd & charming to me, like letters from an old friend.
I recall why I started writing. Not my first impulse when I was tiny which was towards parody & matching velocities so as to learn a style -- it was being ridden by a hard mood, an overwhelming holistic feeling of something inexpressible & complicated, and wanting to be able to access it and recapture it, knowing I'd never remember the way that a particular combination of thoughts was like breathing the air of a new planet. In that I have succeeded. Beyond that, a strong recognizable voice, or voices, a lazy one and one more springy & compact, both of them recognizably me throughout.
Then there are the unblogged, unbloggable, unsent, deleted, unspeakable thoughts, file after file of the worst bits of my mind, pettiness, whining, vitriol, accusations, frightening pain raw on the page. It's the pile of files to be burned when I die! I want to keep them for my own continuity of identity, but everyone else should be spared. My god! The things we come up with. We all do, and we get that shuddering sense the world couldn't possibly bear the truth of those moments spoken out loud. They might take on too much reality, magic spells & demons named. As always, that's a dare I want to take, a challenge & warning that makes my heart flare up strongly and resolve to summon every demon and make them my own.
Because of my recent flash flood of thinking about progressive disability and death, I have a strong impulse to organize my mental and physical geographies. To shed the things I don't want. Get rid of stuff. Put my house in order. Molting. Pull forward everything of value, reground importances, questioning assumptions. What ends up in the foreground?
All very well, but what I should do right now is go to the hospital to walk around in the warm hydrotherapy pool, giving precedence to the splendid geography of my body; the organization of files and books and shoes and papers to be continued another day; all things in moderation.