My thoughts today, I need to air them all to write them here as in a recent someone’s weblog defending blogging as a voice that can be heard and hearing voices of all that choose to speak, not then, to replace the media nor the mediums of books and gatherings.
I feel full up as an unmilked cow. Today it all comes out in buckets, the lotto of the extra bar of candy from your quarters in the machine. It belongs, of course, to the person who has just walked away in angry frustration, but can you find him in the crowd? The pumps uptown, the second on the streetside, dribble gas long after clunking shut. Does it belong to me, or to the next car or the station? How we justify standing there and milking it until our conscience signals what is fair. And will I stand there longer next time, stretching boundaries with each passing fillup? Will having money change my squeezing out that milk of transportation? In fact, in contradiction to the evil it’s supposed to bring. Is what we read, experience, taste touch and smell a setting of new limits?
Today my mind is filled up to the brim with one particular focus. Started by he who throws a simple question out that needs full days of answering. Are characters developed from experience and then let loose to wander on their own? Writing life or writing stories, it’s all the same. There is a starting point, there is an unknown journey. Gopher holes and mountains change the way.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology