Sunday Morning. Woke from a long deep sleep to bright sun, a clear blue sky, the pond's eye open, everything in clear focus. Last night I finished a typed first draft of my story, now called "A River Tale." It took a long time to type it, basically because I was still writing as I typed, adding whole new passages. My motivation now at the end of the residency was a deadline that Ching-In, the other resident, and I had given each other to finish drafts of our work so that we could read each others' writing and give feedback. I'm really looking forward to both reading and being read. A fitting finale.
If mind is the residue of incomplete thoughts, perhaps this story I've come back to numerous times in my writing life is a very large, incomplete, undigested thought, and working it through will remove the "carbuncle" from the passage of my creativity, the deep underground reservoir from which the voices emerge. (Metaphor borrowed freely from a legend about the Moodus, a place of underground voice, near where I am staying.) Listening to the spirits.
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