straight feed from journal, saturday, july 12, 1997

Water like a sheet of light, casting rippling shadows over my sun-baked skin. Sea-gulls cawing and ospreys chirping, blend with the buzz of a motor boat. I have decided to live in the moment, squinting against the setting sun's light. I don't care-- don't know, what will happen a month from now. So I'll just live. Except, as I've discovered, I cannot just live. I have to write. I cannot just drink my tea, feeling the whispers of wind that rustle up tree music, thinking about the taste of honey as it mixes with mandarin-orange spice, can't just notice life and realize I am living. I have to put it into words, string it like beads, why? So I can relive it? I'm not sure-- sometimes I don't really experience a moment in all its depth, don't explore a realization on all its levels, until I've written it. Because words are life. Or rather, life is all about realizing you're living. And for me, that realization comes through words, phrases, descriptions sounded out, looped over in my mind. It's like all that about how life isn't a means to an end, life is a journey-- for me it's the same with writing. Writing is not just what I do to end up with an essay, story, or poem. Writing itself is an act. A means of living.