On the day before the 600th post, I see myself.

Writing as Life. No difference.

Everything we do in our lives we do as writers.

We fly. We wheedle. We love—sometimes badly or too soon. We misjudge. We overthink. We adore when no adoration is warranted or deserved, and lower our eyes if the adoration is ever turned our way. We are stubborn, impatient and unfair; giddy and lifted by hope and eaten by jealousy. We are small and judgmental and bound by our limitations. We are silly and childlike and childish; we are wise and insane. We reach out toward visions, yearning for something most of us will never touch. We wear our hearts on the outside.

Writing is the fractal of the infinite us. And we can’t choose it…we can only choose to recognize it.

If someone had asked us, back when, if this is how we saw ourselves umpty years in the future, is this what we would have described?

I think I would have done. For all the complications and uncertainties and disappointments of this life, I would. Even today.

In this, my 599th post, I look back over a journey that still changes every day. I live a life that all too frequently asks me “What do you think you’re doing?” until I know that I simply must get up and get on with it.

Today I live in the high place. Tomorrow I might (again) realize that all is crumbling around me. Same shit, different day.

I’ll give you Charles Wright, the best thing I can think to bring you on a day, an almost-occasion like this:

               ‘I write, as I said before, to untie myself, to stand clear,

                            To extricate an absence,

                                          The ultimate hush of language…

                                  The silence that turns the silence off.’

The choices. The ones we make when we have no others, or have all of them. The ones we make because we must—599 posts ago, the same as today.

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