No, this won’t do. This constant erasure will not do at all. Perfection doesn’t happen, perhaps at the center of the sun it happens, or 3/4 of the way down the particle accelerator lane it occurs briefly, but nowhere else. I need to write first drafts more like my Morning Pages (TM– Julia Cameron, 2001 I believe) and less like I’m polishing silver. Less like I’m balancing in releve, which is always constant adjustment and dynamic feedback. Which if your brain isn’t cluttered with faff like fluttery affectations, or anxiety about the color of your sweat on your leo, becomes the proverbial plumb line.
I’m writing this blog because I’ve got some bad squatters on my to-do list. Years of kicking it in my brains, without contributing to rent or utility bills. Sometimes they’ll start a trash fire that gets out of hand and singes my eyebrows; other times they’ll venture out in broad daylight to snatch a meat pie from the windowsill, setting loose four and twenty blackbirds by their brazenry. It’s a low-stakes endeavor: for who will read by bits and starts? I do not dare link to Public Internet Me because there’s one real doozy of a freeloader that’s a floozy doozy. I never could resist a rhyme. But I am not so bold as to hash these things out indiscreetly; my umbrella is paltry and mean. The craft beer is beginning to addle my words; in any event, we return to the matter at hand after I inflict upon my poor little dog one of the four baths she must suffer each year. I’ll still drink in her scent, but it will be hints of her rather than an overpowering ripeness that invites me to wallow.