My little soul’s endless emotions

I can’t get enough of canned peaches. Can’t get enough kaffeeklatsch when it comes to peaches. I could spend hours just finding synonyms for “peach.” And I love it when a older woman with a twinkle in her eyes calls me peachy. And I could write a dissertation on the homo-erotic, social myopic about the can.

But I cannot stand a lukewarn cup of tea. Or the sanctimonious rubric of adulterers who think those who are not promiscuous are philistines of the lowest kind but who don’t see that their mores are exactly the same as the puritan who castigates anyone who is morally debauched. It’s all the same egg yolk getting splattered on the face.

Life has a backward movement as well as a forward momentum. A person can wrestle with big things, but a person allowing big things to get the better of them can only lead to misery.

I sometimes approach writing as if it’s a clothesline where you go each day and collect words. But it’s not that simple, and it’s not that prosaic. I think to be an honest writer you have to wish for a strong gust to send the words away and then it’s up to you to either trudge back indoors with what stayed put or for you to see it as an obligation to dash after those that got away because you know that’s what you need to succeed. What’s attainable in writing is worth the effort but not the struggle. It’s what can never be that should be the passion.

“There’s a common myth that creativity is linked to dark states and depression; it isn’t anything like as simple as that. I think it is to do with being open, which you have to be if you want to be honest in your work, and it is to do with the liminal state of creativity — a place that happens on the cusp or the boundary of two worlds and is exhausting, exhilarating, but also frightening, and full of shapes that are unknown.” Winterson

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