This is my desk in a room that nestles at the foot of Laurel Canyon. I am tucked into a corner of the cottage. To the back of this room is a large walk in closet, where I have red shoes and black studded boots waiting on a wooden shelf. I have a door like a shutter that I can close on my bedroom so this space can just be for
Writing, to use words to build, to create. Sometimes I want to eat words, I don't mean eat ones I didn't mean to say. I mean actually bite the words, taste each letter in my mouth. Sometimes when I am watching a film I want to put my spoon in the celluloid and scoop it up. I imagine it as a liquid poured onto the screen from a jug. Stirred and poured and thick and rich and running.
I often want to lay down on the earth and feel her breathe, feel us all breathe because we don't enough.
My mind thinks in images. I write in images, I live in images . I write dark mangled poetry, I don't do manicured and I don't think I ever will.
I share my voice in a class full of the most beautiful, courageous women. They allow me to be me, and are never shocked by what I have to say, they embrace it and I feel my voice growing out of me vine by vine and I am not afraid.
When I feel like this, not to create drives me insane. Its an energy that burns fast and unforgiving. So writing in a way is a step, a step for a woman who hid herself too long, who now sees the world through wider eyes and a bolder heart that has been ripped open and will not close...it still beats...and it beats..