And yet. . .
There is a part of me that worries that I'll be an 80 year old woman, stiff of body and dissatisfied with what am about to leave behind. I was lamenting to a good friend last week my torpid ambition and he said to me Don't confuse lack of motivation for laziness. Ashé. I hope that is my ailment, lack of motivation. I read published writings at times and know I can do better. I know what I have to say and how to say it.
I look at what I've written about and it is all over the place. A lot of my earlier writing was about sex and sexuality, I had just come into what I call sexual ego and I was thrilled with it; my writing reflected the headiness that new power inspired, the prowess and inner growl. Then the writing went into the disappointment that followed the discovery of sexual ego, the failed relationships and discord of physical desire versus emotional needs. I dipped latently at times into identity. The writing of the last couple of years has been about narrative and myth since like Eve, I've discovered my own nudity and have known shame. Parable and allegory. Storytelling. Aren't all the great lessons told through story? Maybe this is why I've been more into prose than poetry the last couple of years. But poetry is the meaty heart, my diaphanous language, the love of cerebral music.