I Remember A Friend Many Years Ago

Our Bodies Are Garbage Heaps: We Collect Experience, And From The Decomposition Of The Thrown-out Eggshells, Spinach Leaves, Coffee Grinds, And Old Steak Bones Out Of Our Minds Come Nitrogen, Heat, And Very Fertile Soil. Out Of This Fertile Soil Bloom Our Poems And Stories. But This Does Not Come All At Once. It Takes Time. Continue To Turn Over And Over The Organic Details Of Your Life Until Some Of Them Fall Through The Garbage Of Discursive Thoughts To The Solid Ground Of Black Soil.

First, Consider The Pen You Write With. It Should Be A Fast-writing Pen Because Your Thoughts Are Always Much Faster Than Your Hand. You Don't Want To Slow Up Your Hand Even More With A Slow Pen. A Ballpoint, A Pencil, A Felt Tip, For Sure, Are Slow. Go To A Stationery Store And See What Feels Good To You. Try Out Different Kinds. Don't Get Too Fancy And Expensive. I Mostly Use A Cheap Sheaffer Fountain Pen, About $1.95.... You Want To Be Able To Feel The Connection And Texture Of The Pen On Paper.

I Write Because I Am Alone And Move Through The World Alone. No One Will Know What Has Passed Through Me... I Write Because There Are Stories That People Have Forgotten To Tell, Because I Am A Woman Trying To Stand Up In My Life... I Write Out Of Hurt And How To Make Hurt Okay; How To Make Myself Strong And Come Home, And It May Be The Only Real Home I'll Ever Have.

In The End, You Have To Just Sit Down, Shut Up, And Write.

Great Lovers Realize That They Are What They Are In Love With.