notes from my morning

My writing life is changing which I suppose would be okay if it was not so drastic. I use to work at night after the children had to gone to bed and then edit in the morning when my mind was clear but now my mind wants the day. And the selfish thing wants the whole day. My poetic mind does not understand things like we all need to eat.

Some days I feel like I would only understand this language if I went somewhere deeper inside myself. If I allowed myself to become utterly lost but I never do. I dive down with the one rope tied around my waist and write, all the while a voice is saying cut the rope. Of course, there is another voice that says this is how writers go mad. I have no desire for madness.

This morning I am thinking about art and sex. Why those two things are so much alike. How if you allow yourself to think about what you’re doing it’s never as good as when you just let go, trust your body knows what to do. And that, to be honest even when you are having great sex, there comes a point where you must come back to yourself or something will snap inside, you’ll never find your way out. You will become lost.

I believe in those two things, exists my language. How I communicate to whatever is holy inside or outside of who I am. Not to say there is not bad writing or bad sex. The worst in both areas is when it is not working but you have to finish the “poem” anyway.

In both those things I am the better “Teresa”, in word I become more than the sum of my parts. I accede who I believe myself to be. And that is why, to be honest I love writing so much. I am for one brief second above my own humanity.