My friend, such moments do survive. Give them air. Let them play unsupervised in the field of the body. Keep the tasks of the day aside for as long as you can. Feed silence. Invite time. Resist gist. – Lia Purpura
Resist gist. Don’t settle for close enough. Write deeper, further. Spin it round one more time and catch that last glint of meaning or memory or mundane. The way the romas split from wholeness only vertically.
Go beyond pith to juice and flesh. Press hard with your words and gather the drops that arise on the lip of an antique bottle that you set in your kitchen window.
Do less. Fill your time with time. With openness. With staring. Watch Stephen the rabbit make his way up the yard. Hear the moan of the cow – the lowing so deep – that you think every animal next door must be birthing.
I need to hear myself.
Cast aside numbers and the hope that so many carry to you that there are rules or answers or formulas for this thing. Live the work instead of talking about it. Write images and sounds and stories that carry thoughts. The thoughts themselves are never original. Fill them in with the blue like mountains.
Read long. Gaze at the middle distance. Color.
Listen, Andi, Listen.
Recognize that the long walks all those writers take in the afternoon or early morning are not luxury but necessity. See that longing in yourself and answer it. Stroll to the top of the mountain and ponder how those boulders came, bidden and unhumaned, to rest there. Watch your father discover them again.
Stop trying to do more. More options. More guidelines. More strategies. And do this thing, this dancing word thing that hangs magenta and forest. Do it well. With heart. Without gist.
Write, my dear. For it is what makes you most whole. And most happy.