type.writer -xiv

My younger self reminds me not to forget my shadow, not to leave it out of the story, for without a shadow what are we? Nothing of substance, for anything of substance casts a shadow. The world needs a recluse, the world wants a freakshow, some deep failure, fatal flaw. So they can see themselves through it, otherwise they cannot often look. And when they see character lost in its shadow, well, contempt may turn to stone and break, and inside the contempt may we find our humanity in another's vulnerability. And find our compassion again. Toward others and toward ourselves! In a book, on the silver screen, in a play, in the news, at an opera, on the streets. We all are born into lives with our limits. We come abbreviated! Short-changed from the start. Getting alienated and thrown out of the womb, severed, the umbilical cord. What awaits us are further separations: from family, friends, community, self. From shadow. We need guidance to negotiate our way back into relationship! May books be always our guides. To the one who you know who knows you, too, I tell myself, may you steer your pen and the keys, to help and relate, not to please.

readers help writers

How and why? Did a part of me die? The madness in my art described the sadness in my heart. Then someone walked by. The circling of my toe inscribed a path inside the snow. They told me about the sky, and how to use that space. My teeth were misaligned, you saw them in my face. Then the kittens came, a-crying for some milk. I went to find some sweet cream, I found it in a dream. The readers read my mind. I signed their hearts, with love. A part of me was healed. The message was not mine, the envelope was sealed. It came from up above. I told them about the sky, and how to use that space. Some fled, some stayed. They stayed with me, in grace.

author. city cemetery.