sometimes it troubles me to identify with people with mental illness…socially awkward writers fumbling for words to verbalize, more comfortable tumbling about mentally and purging words onto a page or computer screen where strikeouts are less intense… to strike out verbally, to come up empty-handed when in the company of others, to have the lubrication of alcohol when often quite mistakenly (or brazenly) things come out feeling right even when they are all wrong…
i know i am and i don’t care.
(morning prose, monday’s permission to ramble)
i realized recently that i am a technical editor. or at least, the runny, yolky beginning(s) of such a techie bird. my shell has cracked and i slither around in microsoft word all day long, learning how to better utilize word processing software, all the while trying to process the multiplicity of words i store under my hat. i sneak, now even, alone in an office where the dirty jewish girl tried to dress nice(ly) today. her shirt is wrinkled and after two weeks, this morning, i took her dirty dishes to the kitchenette to soak in a warm bath of foaming dish detergent. i can’t bring ants home to my crappy apartment; there are already too many risks there. centipedes and spiders and leaky faucets and cracks in the tile and noise(s) outside that threaten fleeting sanity… i should carry on. technically, and figuratively, from my seat, where i am on the payroll to find the errors and fix them, for god’s sake.
make them right, t./whatever it takes to make me write…
Nonfiction Woman 