WHITE HEAT

WHITE HEAT...

Lawrence Durrell wrote a letter to Anais Nin about writing in a white heat... I’m not exactly writing, but I’ve got thirty-three pages of the HH diary excerpts done... When I woke from a dream this morning I felt the love in my body again. I felt peace. I tried to sleep longer to catch the dream I came from, that gave me back that delicious feeling, but my nephew called. He told me of his morning's dream, and how he wrote two thousand words after talking to me last night.

So that’s what a mother feels like. I lost my own dream but was comforted knowing my energy helped him transform his madness into a meaty musing. I comforted the youth. My maturity was salve to his fear.

When I'm busy with my own project, I’m not thinking I’m not enough.

I’m embarrassed by the truths I expose in my private pages that I’m now typing up to make more public. My lack of spiritual fiber, my lack of ethical appropriateness, my desperation turning to numbing agents which just made it all worse... Yet, it is good to see this. I drank a real cup of coffee today knowing I have a full day ahead at the network and then the party tonight.

I’m hopeful I can go to the party and not do much to alter my natural feeling state... Not drink or smoke... not push beyond that which I’m authentically feeling.

Ever since we talked on Monday about sobriety... I’ve been wondering what I would do come Friday’s party. The only substance I’ve had this week other than this morning cup of joe... was one shot of Tequila after seeing Matthew McConaughey peer pressure Oprah on her universal screen to imbibe same. I wanted a taste of that and did that and was done with one.

White Heat...

n.

1. The temperature or physical condition of a white-hot substance.

2. Intense emotion or excitement: working at white heat to make the deadline.

The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2003. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

I’ve fantasized about having it and being in it for two full decades. To be so engrossed that eating and sleeping become one and the same as emoting and creating a work to share. I’ve always wondered if I could live my diary in the world. Reading what I wrote that two-week period in April of 1986 when I was out in the desert with Trent and his mother, Mrs. Anderson. I worked so hard every day for fifteen days, all of it on the inner work. The words I wrote in that book exposed so much of my process. Yet, walking away I discovered I had actually accomplished very little that I could share with others at that time.

I felt myself to be such a failure... and yet, some of that is part of this story now. Reading how clear T was about the creative process. He had great insight into my fears, yet was without the facility to deliver his wisdom gently enough to my insides so I could quietly take it in and make it mine.

The coffee gets me to sit at the desk doing the tiresome typing of blue pen into black bytes... But in terms of this sitting and typing straight from my heart, the anxiety that coffee creates is like a storm shifting the waters on my surface so fervently that I can’t see what is going on below. Also... knowing I must leave the sanctity of this space and go back out into the crazy busy noisy world... I’ve been solid here all week only leaving to walk the stairs yesterday and hit the Food4Less at 1AM when no one was on the street or in the store. As much as I enjoy interacting with other human beings, there is something about living in this metropolis that overwhelms me.

Too many people, too much energy. Yet today, I go back out into it to give of my hands and my heart.

White Heat...
It is happening regardless whether I think I’m manifesting or not.