Erudita's Blog

Someone hurt me yesterday

The weapon so old and dull I did not think it could penetrate my hide.

It did not slice neatly, parting my flesh,

but left a ragged hole.

My mind festers, facts and implications roiling,

sucking at it like a sore tooth.

My heart has closed in upon itself,

tightly furled petals

no prying hand can open without damaging.

Like a night flower,

It will open again soon when the sun shines.

It has been too many days since I have had time to write. I find myself writing in my mind in the moments before I sleep, as I walk around the track, as I drive in the car: anytime that things get quiet. What is it that drives us creatively. I have felt this throughout my life manifesting in different directions. I must sew or quilt or paint, draw, sculpt, write… something, some outlet. Why? Does everyone feel like this? Perhaps they do.

I sat in writing class last night, and lamented that I am not the writer that I wish I were – a familiar feeling but very intense this time. There is this guy in my class that, simply put, has it. He has a gift and then he told us it wasn’t really hard work for him. Which rather pissed me off. I would still like to think he was lying. I would prefer to see him at least working hard to produce what he did. Again, I hope he was lying. I am not him and I never will be. Almendras amargosas – Bitter almonds! However at one point Jim Berg said aloud what I was thinking - that reading Jared’s writing made him want to put the pen down and never pick it up again. I was glad someone else felt it. Then Jim said Jared’s writing was fine wine and that his own, Jim’s, was pizza. And suddenly I thought, I like pizza. Is it that simple? I mean truthfully, a lot of people like pizza right? Maybe I won’t ever be Jared Ninness but I will be pizza.  And I like pizza.