between reading and jogging, my mind is on fire today. out in the vineyard, the most beautiful and pained thoughts came to me and, of course, me without my notebook. and of course, i lose most of those gorgeous thoughts and phrases by the time i get back home. nevertheless, my hands are flying, grabbing at words, making poems, making memoirs, telling secrets, finally, finally, and the swell and the stab and the awful aching to turn over the big jug of all the things that have gone unsaid. let them all come tumbling out. get disowned. fuck it. finally. just tell the world. don't let the monsters hide in your hair. tell it. tell it. tell on them. raise one finger and point because you're the only one who knows where they're hiding.
and so i write and write and write and there is nothing else for me to do today but go on telling.
when the work is done, i promise i'll share.
i'll let you check my hair.
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