Here I must interrupt the narrative—again.
Something has occurred.
As I’ve been busy not writing I’ve noticed that the two words the rape are no longer in need of capitalization. I surprised myself while writing in my journal. A surprise like spilled ink, a shock, an attempt at cleanup, an interesting ink blot appearing like Botero’s Leda and the Swan and yet I was just blue sky writing a rough draft and the fully formed words simply arrived uncapitalized and no real ink was spilled. Interesting. This declarative essay1 about the rape has almost done its job though I don’t remember assigning it a job, task or errand. A doodle, maybe.
And this led me to re-remember why I’m straying in the direction of my dream. My work had been interrupted by the rape a few chapters into the novel. I had written the dream as the prologue—the catalyst for the rest that would occur. And now the dream written as Temple Dream is an uncomplicated do-over in another direction—the direction of ‘where are you going with this?’ A question (running throughout) now understood as rhetorical.
And now the strong urge to go back and reread these entries (having promised myself I wouldn’t) is unbearable. The breaking of rules? Isn’t this the Zen of the Zen of Not Writing? Maybe.2
A term I have coined. The words ‘declarative’ and ‘essay’ become in their purest essence a redundancy. Or a double-shout.
An egg inside an egg. Is there such a thing?
Please continue.