nothing seen, nothing triggered. emotions triggered galore but nothing seen to trigger the words and imagination except three great kiskadees calling out to each other in tall mesquites. how many are enough? three bold beauties, bright yellow in the late afternoon. I wanted to observe that sound and color in crisp air. but I needed to get away from the surrounding buildings. too much time and good energy wasted on bureaucracy. and the sun down now.
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when new writers fall in love with writing, it is like an erotic awakening with the self, that new awareness of the world. i don’t think that feeling ever goes away when writing what one wants and needs to write. I wonder how people who write 'for a living' feel? surely it's more complicated than the opposite. i’m tempted to type 'I write for a dying' so I type it. how dramatic--I write for a dying! dressed in black and wearing crucifixes gone chic one preteen year in the 80’s thinking that’s daring or sexy even when acutely alone/alive/awake in your bedroom. a zillion leather chola bracelets suddenly on mtv!
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