I'm thinking that the only way to write meaningfully is to be honest. But then again, it's a risk. My flapping jaws have told tons of fine folks about this weblog and some have dropped by. But I've found myself far more interested in and relaxed by the visitors I don't know. It seems so much easier to open up to them. Maybe because I feel like I don't have to own up to what I say, or justify it somehow. When you express yourself, blantantly, in black and white, it looks a certain way on the page. As a writer, it looks true. It's certainly the truth that feels true to you. Maybe the people who know you - all flesh, bones, warmth, wit and pathos - don't quite see you that way, and they don't see what you've written as a true reflection of you. Then you feel defensive. But, you see, you meant what you said when you wrote it.
My point is that someone who doesn't know you sees the writer for the person. The writer is free to speak the truth, the truth for the person, her character, her voice within.
Waxing philosophical, waning energy.
I found this woman's pictures of Chicago. They are very unique. She has a lovely eye. Please read her terms of use and purchase information if you are interested, cause I know they are not free.
I recently came across this link for Exploding Dog again, which I've loved for a long time. His stuff is sure to make you smile. I might make him one of my side links.
It's been a long, exhausting couple of days. Been hard at work at my freelance project, as well as a bunch of extra projects. Mia is a madwoman, literally leaping and bounding her way to walking more every day, which, as a mini-aside, is the most fucking cool thing I have ever witnessed in my life.
I heard it was going to be in the 80s on Monday. Am I tripping? To dream, perchance to sleep.
