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It cracks me up. One of the things that I fight and strive for in this blog is to defend our nativeness. For far too long have been led to believe that we are immigrants, illegals, and other nonnative beings that one easily bypasses the fact that we are Americans inasmuch as George Washington was one. Through time and bad policy the American narrative has made us look like anything but Americans. As if the Southwest has always been ruled by white America. That is their greatest victory, that they managed to convince us that we do not belong there.

So I find it funny how this kind of situation still happens.

The space keyboard brings insecurity to my typing. It is wobbly, in a fit of misdirected force I became irate and hit it thus making the spacebar wobbly. It’s nearly reflecting my approach to writing. As I always fear the power words have, and ultimately the power the reader has; unto them, I stand needlessly out in the open.

The one because I don’t know how to control them. Ornamentation is hardly my forte, I, like botanist Carl von Linne, care only to classify them, words are pretty in themselves, but it takes a real flowerist to make arrangements with them and draw awe; to offer a sense of beauty and spiritual oneness with nature.

The other because it is he or she that will ultimately cast judgment, draw conclusions and offer words that will reflect its reaction to that which as been read. The reader, I fear, is an unwelcome gardener that pulls weeds and prune trees. It plants seeds where none perhaps are needed. It comes and disturbs the peace of the bed where I toil the soil. Although more and more I come to see this stranger as a welcome part of the ecosystem. Like bee’s and other insects who bring pollen to my lot, I am amused at how flowers I thought I never sowed suddenly sprout adding color and delight to my otherwise green collection.

I have come to realize that it is good to be cultivated.

Dear diary, not!

I reached a point of observation, on top of the lighthouse I saw with the aid of the ramp light a common scene, the sea. I saw millions of sparkles in its water, all very amazing in varying degrees, yet I saw a struggle there too, namely, the need for uniqueness.

Half of what of I written has been modified by the WP, am I being too complacent in allowing the WP to dictate to me what’s right or what’s wrong?

As a writer, if any cuneiform of writing makes me a writer, then I shall be one, in accord to the fact that I am writing, there isn’t much left to indulge our heads. The writing system is exhausted, a well dried out. Nothing is new under the sun sayeth the book of Ecclesiastes yet we tinker along. I fear though we seek in vain. No new forms of writing within our present writing system is allowed, we have stretched it out to its limit. The letter is dead!

Well, being a writer is far more difficult than expected, and this at the Creative Writing level. It occurred to me the reason, the possible raison d’être, that many writers lead a life that is tumultuous is because to many this is the only source of inspiration, they love so much what they do, that they engage in all kinds of acts. Writing feeds off ones life experience. It is in trying to formulate our feelings so as to make them real for others outside our entities that makes writing what it is. The imagination might be in itself a good way of putting things into perspective, but by far, I believe that ones inner experience forms a huge part of writing. I mean what does one do when there isn’t a plot? When ones well is dry? These and more question arise more and more as I try to exact what is it that I want from my writing …

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