On Her Own
an excerpt

I love how this is turning into a journal rather than simply my planned narrative. But really memoir is far reaching and I find I have so many far reaching and expanding multiple thoughts that – at least in an experience of pushing myself to write so many words in a month and be on such a productive level constantly – I really cannot control the gush of thoughts and words and images and textures.

They just spin, and I try to reach out and slow them enough to catch a glimpse and take a shot at remembering and record that as best I can before they slip out of my grip to join the ever building cascade of tidal waves in my mind; my emotions spilling out and compressing, depressing into something smaller, more manageable and fulfilled; spilled but orderly as they splay out onto the page, imposing meta narrative level analysis on swirling chaos that doesn’t like to be contained, let alone see that containment reflected in its own image of twisted triumph and self destruction on a yawning white and open page welcoming black textured ink to mar its surface; welcoming the dirtying of its pristine prison, the emptiness that echoes down dark hallways when everyone has gone to sleep at night and even an overturned umbrella stand leaves nary a sound, as far as any waking thing can tell.

My wakeful consciousness records the sprays and torrents of water as they pass by, and is about as successful as a thirsty person filling a glass with water with the help of a rainstorm. Not reflective of the whole – how can anything be? – but truly a commemoration of a significant event in the life of the writer. An event worth sharing and reflecting, -- and finding the strength to not only lay it all out on the page, but then be able to walk away when the last period is dropped.