Why Write?
Writing is a funny thing. There are moments where it is a meditation, a prayer, simple as breathing— deep and complete— to clear the conscious for the next day's sensory onslaught. At other times, it's a record, a document— a multi-faceted snapshot— pocketed for later to avoid Memory's insidious hide-n-seek. And at it's best, it's an orchestration of Thought— a map. Sense leading the senseless to the source of Art, by mere suggestion and shared illusion, so that we might all be disabused of Ourselves— our hands and faces pressed against an ice cold reflective glass. Writing is like some unsought conquest, a brain game, to which the intellect is challenged to the Death by the grinning mask of Life itself— with a toast and a jest. Though I may drag my feet, the gauntlet is mine, and I am inexplicably called to pick up the fight, no matter the length or cause of my retreat. And we make gains from time to time— because writing always helps us, somehow, to individually and collectively survive amid the infinite cobwebs that are always crisscrossing our subconscious mind.