Digging deep is kicking my emotional ass. I'm still not so into the poesia. Too much in there now to write, too much of the strangest year ever. My friend Scott Benefiel, artist extraordinaire, told me that my life could be Sandra Bullock movie, so awkwardly bad it has been the last half year or so. But, let the credits roll, I'm out of this dumb film. Killing the bastard actors and casting myself in something quieter.
Working on some essays that are proving harder to write than I imagined they would. Seems like the things I want to write about are tied into old hurts that come screaming like angry dragons when I put them on paper. When I start to cry when I write the malaise sweeps me off and I find myself on the sofa bed in my office, staring at the ceiling fan going 'round and 'round, bad hypnosis for a sore mind.
This weekend, after the parade, I will take the advice of all the heroes and heroines I've been reading in their quest novels, I will stand strong and piss in the dragon's mouth when he comes to roar and let him know I'm in charge of the narrative and his bad breath and stink can get the hell out. I'm on.