aka, hot mess.
“what would be so terrible about not doing the things you’re trying to do?”
indeed at some point the effort seems specious– one has to wonder sooner or later. and yet attempting to address it stumps me.
“what would be so bad about just writing for yourself? no one else to read it– you could write just whatever you want.”
impatience with the process shoulders its way forward through all those shoulds, all the while envying the anatomy model for its detachable head– which saying out loud shows seams and stray threads. nightly reunions with daytime wits neither tidy or methodical.
“maybe you’re just not a writer, in that way.”
ouch. but right. … or simply in process perhaps (whatever that might mean.) wrangling with the judge who sits up top, comparing this and that, busily finding wanting, colorblind to differences betwixt tree fruits. and furious. mean little footstomper, greedy for the next arresting, authentic instance, urging to be convinced and content. only perpetual reinvention complete with throes seems sufficient, if less than entirely tasteful or pleasant for the participants.