Last night I went to bed with a wish for the seams of the book to break open, and reveal the crystalline form that needed to emerge. I wanted my dreams to guide me to the story that would enliven the discourse, a tale broken into juicy fragments that would make the reader eager to read the more academic pieces, thirsty to continue.
And it happened, the dreams worked their magic, like they have many nights, with paragraphs popping in and out of my waking state all night, but usually those same paragraphs get lost in the psychic jet stream before I awaken. This morning a new paragraph spilled out of my eyes, fingers and forehead, and it guided me, so fully that I was almost breathless in that first hour of writing.
I spent the day splitting open the dried up carcass of the old draft, and ripping off pieces, planting some of them shortened in other parts of the text, and into it all came the sweet ball of a girl, swirling with energy, and her folded-in shadow self who becomes more squished as time passes.
I don't know if this story will stay yet, even though the countdown to birthline is only a couple of days away. This is what pressure does to me.
As I returned to my desk after a lunch break, I saw a headline about the DNC and could not resist clicking on the button. There I learned that the police had trapped over 2000 peaceful demonstrators and that the batons, tear gas, and pepper spray were being used indiscriminately. I was horrified, and the chemicals that surged through my body seem to mimic their pain. I put on some Michael Hedges in an attempt to sooth myself and return to the sweet ball of a girl, but it was one of the hardest things I've done during this writing process. One of the hardest things.