Writing about Writing

Focus. Stay focused. People don’t understand when you cross over. Chronic pain Jewish multicultural education writing radical feminism dance wha?? huh?? Streamline. Focus. Market. Target. Manifest.

But my soul is tired. Because it’s all flowing like colorful ribbons threads connecting one to another. I don’t want to explain anymore. I DON’T WANT TO EXPLAIN ANYMORE. I want to express and let them be confused let them judge let them MISUNDERSTAND.

I started writing because it was that or suicide. Witness chronicle process call out enact or die. I started writing because I became aware of how different I was. And I thought, “Uh oh.”

And I figured that if I kept going the way I was going and nobody understood shit about where I was coming from, I might end up in some straight jacket somewhere at some time. I see how they treat people who see.

So I had to rise to the top. I had to come down from the mountain. I had to translate. I had to find the language crossing between the creative life force of knowing, of just being and doing, and the ordinary mind. Explain my actions and behaviors that seemed so odd to so many. Tracing the threads through all their complexities and tangles and interwoven madness.

Fuck it. Fuck it. I feel fear writing raw. Fuck it.