Monday Mimisms ~ I Want To Watch The Ink Dry

As if today were Monday....and it's time for another Monday Mimisms on the old blog channel.

As if
The more I try to embrace new avenues and platforms, the more I keep coming back to this blog. Some of the best decisions of my life stem from this blog. Some of the happiest moments of my life were on this blog. My hardest heartaches spilled on this blog.
These pages hold truth. They hold substance. They hold memory. They hold history.

They hold me.

All the old editing software has changed. AI dictates my grammar, suggests my revisions, punctuates my prissy online diary, and attempts to steer me in a predictable forward direction...when all I really want to do is for it to leave me alone and let me write -UnhinderedMy wordsMy way
When have I ever been predictable?
"May I help you with this paragraph?" asks the Intrusion of all Intrusions 
"No thank you, Mr. Bot," said She, " I am just now getting used to your presence. I don't know you. You don't know me.  I don't even know your Grandma. I couldn't possibly ask for your help if I don't know your Grandma. We won't be collaborating on a steamy ending nor a dubious beginning down Literary Lane. I just want to write."
"I don't even know your real name."
"But I can do things so much faster, Ms. Lenox. Ask me anything!"
"Well, if you insist. My heart- my human heart- is having a meltdown this afternoon.  Do you have any indication of which specific cliff I'm going to fall from first? Do I need a parachute? Or will it be a casual tumbling down the rabbit hole....Do you see the memories in my soul? Do you feel them? Can you predict which heartbeat matters most, or if, even, I'll still have a beating heart by sundown? What is your data diagnosis, O-Intrusive-One? I've taken all the aspirin I can take. I've called you in the morning, in the evening, and at each crisis in-between. Your isms are not helping. You keep vomiting back to me everything I've ever said on the Internet or previously written anyway and anywhere in the whole wide world. You know my run-ons by heart. And that damn ellipsis horror at the top of my blog, you know it, too. It follows me like a pesky grammar gang, stalking my intentions, marking my territory, mocking my style. 
And besides, what you write is boring.  It's a waste of time. It's redundant. Why does the world want to hear me repeat myself again and again and again? That is not writing; that is regurgitation. Oh, and theft. That too.
Anyone can be mewhen prompted correctly.

I'm working on a poem about love. Romantic love.Can you anticipate the exact moment my tears will well up in the midst of the feels and overtake the cautious clicking of the pen? Because it will happen.  Are you ready for the big, ugly cry? Or will you try to steer me away from its power? 
Can you read between the lines and catch what my heart heard him say? All momentum stopped at the sound of his voice. Can you write that for me? Are you privvy to my privies in the only way my pen knows to speak? Can you remember the look in his eyes? The breaths caught up in moments of knowing? Can you? How much do you know, O-Swift-Machine? How much do you know?  
Will you offer psychological-isms based on Freud and Jung and self-help books? Or may I proceed with the likes of Rumi on my lips? May I conjure up some Jesus on the way to the next sentence or sit with Buddha under the Bodhi tree?   I have all day, you see. My memory is long in places you haven't seen. I need the reckoning. The shudder. The quake. The flush. Can you feel it when it comes? 
Will you wait for me?
I didn't think so.

Because I am caught and captured in the knowing, I never want to be free. My heart wants to beat out and bleed out this overwhelming angst and massive ancient love on papyrus. 
 I want to watch the ink dry.



Follow Me

Join us for Blog4Peace Nov 4

Like Our Facebook Page

Peace Store