Someone asked me about
my method of writing.

In the morning,
the words are just
swirling around in my head.
Actually, there are sentences
that wake me up.
Speaking inside my head.

I process them as a sculptor;
molding them in my head,
twisting them on my tongue,
extruding them from my lips,
playing with the words,
until they feel right.

The right dent here feels better
than the left dent there.
This is the best way to explain it
though it may seem the least logical.

My writing has always been about
getting it out of my head before
things get too crowded.
The dream that woke me was
a nightmare, as usual.
I was visiting with friends
who are no longer my friends.

(My dreams haunt me,
torment me with
thoughts that I’ve tried to
let go in my consciousness
but grasped too tightly in my
unconscious dreams.
My pain rules the court.)

She entered the house and found her husband’s manuscript
stuck in the fax machine, there was a foul message
from a publisher on their answering machine.
I tried to fix it,
then realized it was not my place to interfere.
Other people’s electronics are Very personal.
Touch them at the risk of your friendship.
She went to deliver the manuscript and
said she would meet us there.
We, her husband, my boys and I
went for a drive to
San Francisco’s
astronomy observation tower.

(Yeah, I wish I was still
in San Francisco.
But it was a dream,
so it just went on its merry way.)

Our car got stuck in some
pretty massive sink hole cracks.
There were crevices in the street
as if the earth had opened up
during an earthquake and
someone forgot to cover them up.

My boys got out,
we abandoned the car and
started to wander the grounds of
the observatory/museum.

We got separated,
we reconvened,
we lost one boy then
found him.
She found us.
I started to get pangs of
overwhelming feelings of loss
knowing I would not ever
sit with my friends
in a car having a
mundane experience ever again.
Then I woke up and started writing.

They were some of the
casualties of my divorce.
Why ex-friends got involved in
the minutia and personal details
bewilders me.

My insatiable curiosity
wants to know
what they were told
the evening I was thrown out.

The next morning by eight
all of my friends knew his story.
Ten points to the alienating ex.

Yes, he (ex) must have
gone through the phone book
and called everyone in it.
I know he told most people
that I left him.
Including my brother.
Funny, reality…

Is it loss or grief?
Or, is it the same thing.
My brain won’t let it go.
I want to let it go.


5 thoughts on “Writing Method/I want to let it go

    1. Thank you. I process through this blog and with lots of therapy. I’m supposed to take baby steps and don’t hold my expectations too high yet. When one day doesn’t work, I try hour by hour. When that fails, I read or watch a movie. Diversions to ease the road to recovery:)

      Liked by 2 people

Any thoughts on the above post are appreciated! Otherwise, I think I must be living under a rock.

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