Men on the verge. To quote Miss Fitts. She didn’t add any more to this so now I think… Verge. Edge. Cliff. Standing on the ledge. To jump or not to jump, that is the question.

Okay, how you gonn stand on a ledge and not jump. Who does this. How you gonn come so close and back down and go home like you didn’t even… I’m not sure. I am sure I am not. No more men on the verge. No more half steppers and high hats and tympanums. And, yes, it is true, that word does not belong in this sentence at all.

I free fall. Free I fall. Right about now I’m descending at the speed of gravity like I’m in that Tom Petty music video. It’s a high ledge, a steep cliff, a deep ravine, a broad abyss. It is limitless. May I say ill-limited. Limits are for prisoners, for traps, for venus fly paper kinda cats.

No, thanks.

I’m thinking of today, of day Thirty Three. What is the best writing advice you ever received?

I answered this question the first time around. Perhaps it was not so much the words written but the hand from which they came. That happens to me as often as not, I hold a deeper affinity for the person than for their words. Perhaps it is the words that create the affinity. Perhaps it was all, word up Christopher Wallace, it was all a dream.

Perhaps it is, my desire for a warm body. Just a primitive desire for heat. Like a lil lizard leaping lithely into the sun, I seek feeling. Being is, to me, half of one when there is less than two. Not that I am not without, but that without I am only when I could be


And so it is for the writer that I fall deep. And I thought it was me, swept away but ohh the cold hand of truth done wiped my dream away. Again. And then again. And then again some more. So long as I am here, I will weave new webs of lucid dreams. And perhaps the day may come when I cease to fall and I land on my feet and dust myself off and learn to walk.

whpshh whpshh whpshh ~

Ohh but I did wish to say, to answer this question because I just remembered my answer for it. The best writing advice ever was given to me by Mr. Johnson a couple of weeks back. I had my pen and paper out all nerd at the ready to take notes. Speak on it.

But no. It wasn’t like that. It could not be. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’ve never been an author, you see. There’s a story to tell and the photographs are on the walls and I was so drunk last night I don’t remember much more. But the photographs are on the walls and I’m starting to understand what I have said a thousand times before.

This is a box of puzzle pieces with no picture on the outside. How many pieces are in the puzzle. Are any pieces missing. Which ones. It may be known but never spoken. Or it may be spoken but never known. How do these pieces fit together. I said it the other day, all kindsa casually. A pyramid has four corners. Why does this make sense to me.

It does and it does not. Words are limited. And me, playing with them, just because I can. (Can I get an AMEN!)

So then…

The best writing advice. It came from Mr. Johnson. I don’t know how he said it but I saw it. A triangle. Point A. Point B. And me, Point C. And the triangle was nearly flat, I was so close to it. I was in that space, that space created by distance and I was close enough to understand. And I was far enough away to vibrate wildly. And it was then that I understood the best writing advice never told. We exist in the space between the words. This is the space of souls.