I wrote.

Okay, I really wanted to title this “I wrote shit.”  Not in the sense of “I wrote stuff,” but in the sense of “I wrote excrement.”

As I’ve mentioned before, it is good for me to meet with Dave for companionable writing time.  (Screeching internal gargoyle interrupts to say, it’s good?  You wrote shit.  Gee, thanks, Señor Diabólico.  Moving right along.)  We convened this evening at Dobra Tea where the tables are a little too small and the chairs are not very comfortable, and wrote in timed 20-minute sessions.  My patience with myself was a little too small and my mind’s circumambulations?  Not very comfortable.  (The chai, however, was good.)

Delving a bit more into why the writing was shit, exactly: I needed to excrete some rather dark and human stuff, and apparently my Being was insistent that this was the sort of writing that needed to happen, as a matter of spiritual-intestinal regularity and fortitude.  I wrote about things like massive disorientation, contradictions, integrity, chickenshittiness, impossibilities, bravery, foolishness, love, beauty, failure, and pilgrimage as a sure way to shred one’s knees.  I despaired that I could ever write bookishly.  I reflected on how deeply ingrained, still, is the belief in Achievement in me—and by belief I don’t mean fealty, but a sort of fear, like Achievement is a wrathful god ready to stone me to death for not Achieving.  I don’t know how many years it’s going to take to dismantle that false idol.  Maybe I’ll never be able to remove it entirely.  It’s the kind of Achievement that is never, ever good enough.

But I showed up.  I wrote.  That’s what I set out to do.  I even further clarified some painful truths to myself.  That’s pretty darn good, eh?  Now all that remains is for someone to cheerfully point out that shit is fertilizer.  Just shut up, okay?  Let me sulk in peace.