“Why did you stop playing the sax?” I asked a friend one day. He had been a Bebop player of growing reputation back in the ’50s but ended that career to become a poet.
“It never stopped sounding like a saxophone, no matter what I did,” was his reply. As a writer, he could transform things into words and words into things and essences into essentials, and also none of the above.
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In one of those coincidences that isn’t, after seeing one of my nightmares in real life, I never had that particular nightmare again. For years, it was a recurring nightmare: a storm was coming, and it was coming specifically for me. What plans it had for me, what might happen to me if and when it successfully caught me, I never learned and I never hoped to.
(What is the number, how many appearances in one’s psyche does it take for one to realize or decide that a dream is a “recurring” one? I do not often write about dreams because they are too private; I will almost certainly fail in any attempt to bring you into my head, and who wants to visit that strange inner land, anyway?)
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Being disabled and collecting a tiny-but-steady income means that I no longer need to do a few things:
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Celebrate Silent Film
stories, anecdotes, poetry, essays, and general magic
The blogging challenge keep you motivated and start the new year on the "write" track!
The Dangerous Blog of Mamie Van Doren
Daddy issues are for beta bitches
Poetry and the rumblings of my synaptic snap.
Poetry BLOG By Edge of Humanity Magazine
-- A Modern SuperWoman Life
Shortness of Breadth
because the story must be told
Award-winning historical murder mysteries inspired by classic 19th-century novels
My thoughts, sentiments, and scribbles on womanhood
Perfectly Imperfect Human
Discovering the joy of art
open your mind to a growth mindset and new perspectives
Truth of life
The Gad About Town 