Accomplished writers tell that they set aside time each day to write, whether they feel like it or not. This is me. I don't emotion. I don't have a pulsing urge. I don't need to say anything really. I must however keep writing. I'm writing a novel, creating a world and populating it. A book is a place of infinite creation. Anything that can fit within the expanse of your brain can fit within a book. I've been working on my world. And in a couple of instances my characters have tried to take on characteristics of real life people, but so far they have been people thathaveheld mystery for me, mysteries I was hoping tosolve during my timeat Spelman. What do you do about unsolved mysteries when they're people? There were people wanted to know that I won't. And there were definitely some people at Morehouse. And I don't mean to say that in a skeevy I wanna get to know those guys at Morehouse way. What do I do about those unsolved mysteries? Do you forget them as time goes on? Do they become the extras of your life? Will I think of this kid when I'm 80 as I fall asleep at night. I'm sorry, but there are certain mysteries that I still want to uncover. I still want to uncover them even though I'll be miles and miles away. Miles away. I could sigh at this point. Space and time and how it allows you to fall in or fall out with this person. How your world is made upon space. It is interesting how the internet halfway allows you to bridge that space, but still not. I will chronicle everything. I will have it all. And some will be the stuff of dreams and some of my writings will be crap, but that is the world of writing and editing. Maybe this here is crap. Lenard D. Moore says there is no such thing as writer's block. I know one person at Wesleyan. I shall say that it will be good to be lazy in my dealings with him and the others I meet. By lazy I mean not worrying about the constraints of time and space. Like taking my time and not knowing that these people will be gone soon and finding out what lies beneath, fingering the insides and the outsides knowing that I can stretch it long and wide and not die from missing in the process, without anything at all except open time and easy leavings and comings and goings. Like summer evenings spent on southern stone porches where each time of night is of the last and the understood coming of tomorrow's. And I'm quasi-crying now just because I am though nothing particular is happening and I'm nowhere inparticular and there's nothing really worth mentioning going on except that Aisha is playing with an extendable blue stretchy christmas light. What is with my crying? I guess I always feint at crying with myself, but i usually don't. My crying is more exemplative of .. I can't really say.But it is not the crying of have sympathy for me or I am sad and need comforting except for when that is in fact the case. Anyway I think of certain peeople everyday as a matter of course. Usually not purposefully. Like my grandparents. I think of them everyday though often not consciously. They are just so woven within me that they are there always, the way they talked, and how they breathed when sleeping, the memory of their scents, their voices. They are me. So me thinking of myself is thinking of them. Certain people can become whispers within you. Veritable whispers. Sometimes they shout. Sometimes they subside and you can't even remember their physicality, only the ribbon of their existence. Only a whisper that resides. You're getting yourself into something you can't finish. Say good-bye Intisar. "Goodbye.."
