Small Steps Forward

every time i sit down to write, i find myself clearing first. the first few paragraphs that i write (sometimes more than a few paragraphs) are for clearing a way through the thought thicket, looking for signs of a path to follow, seeking footsteps in the brush, hunting tracks of a train of thought to follow or create.

i seek the word.

i’ve written quite a bit today, feeling as if i’ve traveled all over the place, and i still haven’t found that word yet. it feels as if things are so scattered that i find myself wandering through my mind as if it were a room, touching on a thought here, playing with a concept there, much like one might go round one’s living room, straightening a picture, fluffing a pillow, looking for something demanding one’s focus and attention.

i think i know what the problem is.

there are a number of things going on in this shelter for which i feel beholden to observe and say nothing. actually, i don’t feel beholden to observe; i do feel compelled to say nothing. i have seen that there are — like most shelters — repercussions for speaking up about anything. every time i think of saying or doing anything about anything, i think of all the things i want to accomplish, the challenges i face in getting those done, and the consequences i’ve seen others get dealt for their actions.

i don’t want more shit on my pile.

but this “compliance” affects me in other ways. this don’t-tell policy i’ve been practicing at the shelter, this disengagement from my surroundings affects my writing, among other things.

it’s funny how life intrudes on art.

i have trouble speaking up, so i have trouble “speaking.”