Sometimes in the morning I find pieces upside down. A few, or as many as a dozen. Cats I supposed at first, but now I am not sure. A small thing really, nothing alarming about it. But why should I not be alarmed? The smallness of the pieces? Perhaps it is telekinesis emanating from my wife's dreams, since she has already mentioned she is growing tired of not having the table available for other uses.
I often doubt that the puzzle can be completed. I have made myself a Borgesian fool's errand it seems. Kafka must think I am an idiot. Nietzsche stopped by and told me I was too weak even to wrestle with phantoms.
I have put off writing about my youth for a couple weeks due to the intrusion of the 48hr film project going on in Indy. I have joined up with a team, and this coming Saturday will be in the shoot, possibly acting and crewing. A seven minute film for the competition will be the result. Wonderful fun.
I sometimes thought that just waiting, maturing, would help to bring about the complex alchemy that goes on in a writer's soul. That something that takes reality apart and re-creates it into fiction, an even greater reality, perhaps. But in writing about my youth I run into my usual problems. Some things seem to be too intensely remembered to be fictionalized. In other places there are great boring voids. I vacillate back and forth between autobiography and fictional modes and am sometimes stuck in between. The age of the character, or myself, is hard for me to pin down. The amount of real experience versus invention veers wildly in one direction or another. Diction level and genre cannot be established. Sometimes I am writing a memoir-- sometimes a horror story, sometimes sci-fi, sometimes just re-living memories that leave me wordless. I would like to combine all these elements, since apparently, I can leave none of them out.
I think this is the stuff you write through. Perhaps if I wade through five hundred pages of material I will never use or need I might get to a place where something interesting begins to shape up. Is this the way writers work? I will walk a mental mile a day. But without a compass? Will the stars mean something eventually, the wind, the moss on trees, voices from some distant place? Will I know when I am there? I wander among ideas. I am just an idea myself. An idea waiting to finish and be done.