I wonder how far down the rabbit hole I should take my visitors. While I was wandering Lowes, the beginning of a poem took form in my mind, it goes like this:
The songs that arise
from my heart comes
from a place furrowed
from darkness, pain,
hate, and slavery.
It ends on a high and upbeat note, so don’t fret over the apparent sadness of the beginning. I am not going to finish it here either. If I finish it here, it counts as published and then that messes with future publication rights and what not. Of course, anyone examining the structure of this poem should see problems with it immediately. Of course, it’s only a first draft. Heck, I don’t even think I would call it a first draft.
I did finally use my ‘Field Note’ brand memo book. It’s really good paper. I’ve been buying those primarily because of the durability of the paper under extreme conditions and also for their small size.
Anyway, back to this rabbit hole, as a person who compartmentalized and dissociated, and reintegrated himself somewhat, sometimes I feel it is a rabbit hole, with twists and turns, perils and dangers, delights and pleasures, and just plain loopiness. It’s this place that gives me my imagination, creativity, vision, dreams, and what-not. I wonder had I been one to used illegal drugs or turned to alcohol would I have destroyed this twisted and beautiful gift of mind that I have. I know my deep empathy has kept me from one terrible career path: but now I need to take my empathy, vision, creativity, vision, dreams, and what-not and focus and finish those bloody books I’ve got underway.