There's a lot of blood on the keyboard. Yeah, Pounding words out. And, sometimes for hours or days there are just no words. It's like a silent, starving, icy lake of fear that end up letting me go from some sort of wicked solitary confindment. I often wake up with gnawing sensations of dissatisfaction and feel instant fear only to find that I am aware of resistance. I often ask myself if my writing is really attached to my name and I often want to erase all of what I've ever written. The GODS know the ultimate sin is not murder or rape, but pride. So I sit and I just consider myself a gun for hire, a mercenary. Those thoughts then purge pride and preciousness. Do I really believe my work is crucial to the planets' survival? No. Hell no. Of course not. Do I believe I have the luck of the Irish? Yes. It's in my blood. Two leprachans are always on my shoulder, one with a halo and one with horns. Seriously. My work is as important to me as the hawk circling outside my window. My work is hungry. She needs the kill. So I do it. And, I go to sleep content with all this blood splattered on the keyboard. It isn't easy spilling blood. But, I will wake up again tomorrow and write again. Home from the hill, offerings from the kill.
All the warrior can give is their life.
The Enemy is a very good teacher ~~~ The Dali Lama
Baudelaire's "Be Drunk"
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
