Friday, August 11, 2006


Journal entry dated Jan 5th, 2004

I have to admit that I am a writer. Everything I do revolves and originates from the identity. Everything I do, think, and say. Even when I talk I’m practicing my writing. That’s why I sound dramatic and talk funny. I’m not insane, well maybe a little, but that’s only a misperception because I don’t accept the world as it is. It’s all possibility to me. Anything can happen. I’m writing the whole messy thing as I go. Nothing is off limits. You look at the world and see what is. I look and see what could be. Everything inspires me, because it’s all clay. Gorgeous, fantastic, organic, mushy yellow heart-beating clay. I have to write, to think, to ponder, and create, but not really create just speculate. Wildly. This is who I am and this is who I will always be. I cannot change that because it comes as easy as breath—as natural as blinking my eye in a dusty room. This is me. I am a writer.

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