12 Pt Smile*
In sentiment. Mood eviscerated. Registered in good faith (cashless until I hit up a WAMU ATM) for Women's Writer's Workshop at Imani House. Introductory workshop wuz this eve. Danced out of sleapy headnessness from 6:30-9:00. I'm tired again but really really excited. I believe in signs and energy and then my sensitivity gets out the way carrying my intuition along with it so I sail by the flattened seat of my Juicy Jeans and then I'm reminded as to what a sign looks like and I can't help but stop and smile.
Exercise 1: What Stops Your Writing?I am dissatisfied with my belly. Must join NYSC. Crunch, Buckhead outpost, played out in '02. I'm not going there to socialize anyway but flatten, tighten, erase. But I'm thinking this might be the real new workout plan.
I want to say love stops it. Not that I even fully understand what it is. Love. But it is the first thing that comes. Always. Love is. If writing isn't. My case in point. Love isn't.
Spite? I don't think I have much of handle on that. I'm compassionate and struggle with settling up with debtors. Love exists in excess for situations that subtract from clear headedness and easy breathing. This is why I cannot. Right? Rather an explantion of its challenge. So I am trying to love both ways, in and out, cause love isn't when it is not. I used to be able to write in lack, nagging sadness, but that time is past.
Exercise 2: The Itch?
I celebrate the impalpable touch and prosletyze the light into heavy handed men until it arrives slithery but before long annoying. The slight tickle of dress rehearsed fingertips. Ennui. Honestly, I delight in palpitating heavy handedness, dammit, like a back hand without the smack underwritten by a fuzzy handprint. A blushing document. Exhibit A. You were here.
*I jacked this post title from a fellow workshopper and NYU grad student whose condense poem had us all sittin' sideways.