My friend Joy told me that. I should have listened. When I don't write, I don't reflect, and I don't understand. I don't always write about what is at the top of the pile, but maybe I start there, and then start to dig, and dig a little deeper, and then find what it is that really needs the words.
Being a mid-range human (versus high-end human or shitty human, inversely correlated with socioeconomic status), I have access to a wide selection of temporary Swathis. I can get along with pretty much anybody for a short period of time. To pull this off, I reach into my costume box, which contains 4 languages, 2 accents of English, 2 nationalities, 2 hometowns, an appearance that ranges from casually boring to downright homeless, the pointy face of a 17-year-old, and the soul of a 70-year-old.
Then, all of this comes together and makes a weird mess. But it's a genuine mess, because I'm made of all genuine parts. I worry about appearing to be something I am not, when I am so many different things that just cannot surface all at once.
