I’m still writing about historical subjects, but blogging about them has taken a back seat to…life.
This isn’t an excuse, just a fact that is inescapable.
I made a self-promise that I would be more disciplined, and write monthly to get back in the game.
Yet I’m not ready to put history to paper today. Instead, I wrote a non-history something. And rather than put it somewhere else (like the depths of my recycle bin) I’m publishing it on my blog.
A poem if you will (or won’t). A loose consciousness of the will to write.
On writing after the absence of one year:
Being in a delusional amount of pain
The distance of thought and the wanting it to be so good
Streams of tension in my neck cry out for relief
The bang of the shutter so infrequent that I forget it will bang
It is quiet but there are sounds all around me
I am alone but not lonely
The ball of fuzz in the back of my mind
The weight of the task on each eyelid
Indecision numbs my legs
Constrictions in my chest are more the bra than fear
But the fear is there
Conscious of my task now I’m pushing it to be good
Trying to be witty
Wanting it to be good
This is what I hate
And what I love about writing
Love it or don’t. I wrote.