I am very low on coherent words right now, but am feeling the need to write. Things are chugging along. I go in spurts of self-promotion, trying to save myself from my own fears of incompetence. Am trying again to find an agent. It seems all agencies are looking for either teenagers or babies. I guess once you hit 25 everyone around you shuts their eyes and pretends you are sidewalk cement. Of course even Toni Colette gets a job now and then, so there must be Hope for me. I keep walking along with Hope in my eyes. Hope shows me my future self and she is fulfilled and radiant.
And then there's The Album. Perhaps I am setting impossibly high standards for myself. When I write words now, they mean nothing. They travel and tumble and collide down the page. They lie in clumps on the floor like torn out hair. My thoughts are a bald spot. I keep asking what is next, what can I do to make my words grow wild...
you know that you will die,
so there's no time to waste.
you have to greet the golden day
with careful heart instead of haste.
you know that you will live
so you've begun to dream.
give yourself to love and glut in karmic calorie.