A copy of a new short by an old friend landed in my hands last night, and it has me at once all riled up and comforted, just like his stuff always does. He's a genius with metaphors, and though I tell myself he chews on the words for a long time before he spits them onto paper, he's probably just that good. That's the comforting part, the fact that reliably he pisses me off by being better than I am at my own game. But the other part is that I know he writes best when he's tortured inside, and this stroke of beautiful makes me hope he's getting some sleep. Makes me recall a stretch back in oh-four, I think, when neither of us did too well emotionally for a month or so following an ugly pediatric arrest, but damn, were we writers then - and I recognize that same twisting in his new story. Just as I recognize too many elements of myself, though I know it's coincidence.
The feeling of needing, wanting to write wraps around me now like an old sweater, just like it always does shortly after the gray gets darkest. The muse, reliably intervening, though this time disguised as a scrawny long-haired kid who smokes too much and smiles too little, giving me the tools with which to write myself out of the muck. Thank you, T.