There are times in your life (I hope for your sake, I'm lucky, very very lucky) when you suddenly find yourself in a rhythm and flood with someone else; an effusion of conversation and connection wholly unlooked for though not surprising, with a cadence so comfortable that you stop noticing it altogether. Topics range, hearts and minds evoked...curious and real. The natural results are questions you havent thought of - simple questions that bridge what you know with what you say in a way you probably would miss if you were slavish to solitude. Somebody reads something you shared, just a game of pitch and catch like when relationships weren't much more complicated than that, and you glove a question about how you write, how deliberately the noise orders itself to the medium. It drew a thought from me...
I mostly just pour, and any quality of sound that sneaks in is probably cause I'm about half singing some of it...I like a roll repeated, and rhymes remembered...that bubble up out of well-meant waters. I do pass back through and edit out parentheticals that go nowhere, typos (that I notice at least) or word-choices that could be easily misconstrued, but mostly, wysiwyg.
...I'm not obliquely sayin' anything, am sayin'...conversation when it's real, when guard is dropped, weapons are down, rare and priceless... but writing, texting, even chatting rarely makes it there...here. When self-editing is more present than self-expression, personas pass for people and it's a virtual state of words; rhythms and exchanges governed by convenience and sheltered by a lack of consequence; in the ether, no one can hear you erase.
The mind free of gesture maybe? Beautiful letters are a big part of the Western canon, drawn and measured, read with feeling...beautiful even...I am more and more compelled to write day-by-day, even if I sometimes lose the edge of my bladed muse and saw dully for a while. Poetry though is the wild mind-heart truth, I just wish I'd known that in my wastrel youth. <--- that goes on for a bit, doggerel panting for a drink, spared ya'.
Got scolded by somebody (hi HS) for "letting the juice of your writing seep on to too many pages"...and hoarding thoughts...the more I thought about that while raindrop-drowsing (Note: it was raining, that's not a nascent children's story device) last night the more I was certain that's not so. I talk too much, granted, but I get fusion from sharing with people that share back, an excess to fuel my next reaction. Take that o critic of nectar! I thought in thunder, then sleep.
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