What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

ThreeOdysseyTwentyFour – NaBloPoMo6 – Committed

T

“Done” about 10 hours ago, but coming into form just under the wire…

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I rarely write from a dedicated place, no, not a church or a cemetery, but when in a state alone and focused; I tend to write from the in-betweens, when class has a lull or I have them watching a film, when work has just ended and night has yet to begin, or even in the blurred unreal space that separates each day from the next. My text comes in stations and on trains, when I’m not yet where I’m going and no longer where I’ve been, and to the unknowing, the untrained observer, I likely look like a spy—a man lodged between two countries with one foot in each—or even worse a journalist. But, if this now-interested, suspicious interloper were to enter my brain she would find me a mere farmer—peeking at my pages, she would see ink laid neat in straight lines like rows of sparse black grain, with correction scratches and bolded overlays marring the landscape, sprouting up like proud, unabashed weeds, and if she paid any real attention—check please!—looked close and actually saw more than her judging expectations would ever have allowed, she would see more words muddying the margins, and even more floating in between, and sometimes over, the most “official” lines like the shadows of overhead clouds, these impulsive passing thoughts trailing up and back, dragged along by my always editing self-consciousness, so that it sometimes seems so bi-polar, this back and forth tugging and punching that takes place in the darker alleys of my subconscious mind; I’m no longer worried that Ms. Suspicious will think me a secret agent, more that she will want to analyze me and this inner in-between that provides the ring for my wrestling writer’s mind every day, but that sings even now as I am unwilling and unready to speak my way though it all in front of her, or you, and anyone else in the out-among.
Tell me I’m not crazy, or…maybe just a little bit crazy, but mostly prove me wrong…
@c

1 comment

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  • like all of this, friend. no overthought, cleverly wrought answer offered up in place of a simple molodetz

    — writing to you now from ‘not yet where I’m going and no longer where I’ve been’ — well done

What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

About Andrew.

Andrew Cartwright grew up in Indianapolis, IN, but has lived over the years in such places as Denver, CO; Fairfax, VA; and Rivne, Ukraine. He is a former nonfiction editor for both Indiana Review and phoebe; he has also worked for the intersectional feminist journal, So To Speak, and the national literary magazine, Electric Literature. His work has appeared in The Normal School Online, Copper Nickel, Esquire Ukraine, Literary Hub, and Word Riot.

For more information about me and links to other writing, visit my author page at cartwriter.com

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