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When I do my writhing in the winter I have a blazing fire in the wood-stove.  If you read some of the stuff I wrote in the winter maybe you can tell.  If I think it's crap it just feeds them flames. Then, sigh, you can't read it.

I wrote a whole story about floating around in a bubble when I was a little kid.  I mean I wrote the story when I was a little kid. Not that I wrote it now, about when I was a little kid.  I don't remember what I wrote.  Long ago they it up in flames.  I'll just leave it at that.


Jan. 26, 2015 through Jan. 27, 2015

Finished book:  Tell The Wolves I'm Home By Carol Rifka Brunt

Every now and again I get a little annoying feeling of anxiety.  I have never been able to determine whether it's caused by forgetting something - there are many things I hope to never forget - or because I remember something - there are also many things which I prefer could remain forgotten.

Sometimes I think the memory of things that never happened are the dearest memories of all.  The things of the past blend with the possibilities of the future.  The lowest points of becoming strive towards the highest points of being and then crash in upon themselves.  Possibility turns into the past and memory remains.  Dip a finger into memory and paint on the canvas of the present, or just use finger-paints on waxed paper - a better memory - hold hands with the painted fingers of your past and reach with the other hand for your future.  I think I can see it there, far ahead, or maybe it's just a memory.