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Excerpts from today's free-write
Dec. 23rd, 2021 01:32 pmI'm experimenting with doing stream-of-conscious writing, in which I start typing and do not allow myself to stop, even if the words don't make sense. These were some of the more coherent bits of today's effort.
What gifts are you carrying? What gifts are you giving? What do you want to give, of the things that you've received? Are there other ways to give? "I haven't any gifts," some say, but you have. You have your uncertainty, and your shyness, your reluctance. You have your imposter syndrome. Lord, if I could give that away in a manner that would stick! Instead, it doubles, like all gifts. The memory of it remains, and sometimes firms into a clone of the first gift.
What was the first gift, do you suppose? Was it a piece of fruit, as we're sometimes lead to believe? Was it milk? Was it time? I think it was time. I think the first and last gift is always time. What else do we have to give, after all, but time?
...
My horse is not a parade horse. My horse is a broken down nag of a horse, who takes care not to step on cats or kittens and is missing most of her hair. My horse is just trying to do her best, OK? If we had one more oomph in us, we could press onward together, horse and me, into the weird canyons and twisty ravines of the pink brain caves. I'm fairly certain that we'd get stuck, the hooves squelching in the mucky bits between the hillocks.
There's a moat around the castle and it's made of soporific fumes.
What gifts are you carrying? What gifts are you giving? What do you want to give, of the things that you've received? Are there other ways to give? "I haven't any gifts," some say, but you have. You have your uncertainty, and your shyness, your reluctance. You have your imposter syndrome. Lord, if I could give that away in a manner that would stick! Instead, it doubles, like all gifts. The memory of it remains, and sometimes firms into a clone of the first gift.
What was the first gift, do you suppose? Was it a piece of fruit, as we're sometimes lead to believe? Was it milk? Was it time? I think it was time. I think the first and last gift is always time. What else do we have to give, after all, but time?
...
My horse is not a parade horse. My horse is a broken down nag of a horse, who takes care not to step on cats or kittens and is missing most of her hair. My horse is just trying to do her best, OK? If we had one more oomph in us, we could press onward together, horse and me, into the weird canyons and twisty ravines of the pink brain caves. I'm fairly certain that we'd get stuck, the hooves squelching in the mucky bits between the hillocks.
There's a moat around the castle and it's made of soporific fumes.
