[Morning Freewrite]

Tired.  Energized.  The night after the day after the daylight.  I am awake
after six hours of sleep and feel the beauty of awakeness.  And also an
emptiness of false hunger.  To eat.  But not to fill up because the hunger
craving stems from sleep and not life.  Is this what I see?

I have been writing.  And revising.  Must keep the Creator and critic
separate.  Hard work.  Not something I'm used to.  But it hass to happen as
I am noticing how slow I get sometimes when I start to critique my work.
Many syncronicities are piling up regarding my work on this book.  But I am
ignoring them.  They are all helpful hints, but why am I ignoring them?  I
am using them, but refusing to acknowledge that there might be something
besides coincidence to them....

Writeing... Dreaming.  Last night I had dream free sleep.  Or another way of
putting it -- I did not remember anything from my dreams.  I do not know if
I should feel chastised or what.  I want to dream but I want to understand
my dreams.  Here I sit without any sense of what my dreams of the past few
days mean.  Perhaps I need to start attempting to analyze them.  I don't
know.  Is there something that has meaning?  What would it be saying?

I feel productive.  There is writing emerging from my mind for the first
time in years.  And it is the type of writing that everyone encourages you
to do at first.  Write from what you know.  Write about what you know.
Write about your life.  And so I am.  Twisting and embellishing and changing
and juxtapositioning -- I feel like a grand wizard; moving positions of
events to suit the purposes of ideas rather than chronology.,  Making things
stand out or obscuring htem.  A writer is a minor diety.  Or perhaps a major
diety -- to those involved in the story itself.  I have always thought this,
but I suppose I've forgotten it.  Or perhaps I've forgotten this particular
feeling.  Shifting real events to suit my purposes makes it seem even more
true.

Is it moral?  To shift real events, real people?  To treat them as props
within this opera/melodrama/play that is a book?  I think it is but I don't
know it is.  I have always had a problem dealing with reality in my books.
Naming characters after real people.  Patterning characters in part after
people.  Locations.... All seemed untrue.  And I wondered how it would be
taken.  Like the episode of Newhart where Bob's new book comes out and it
bears just a tad too close a resemblence to real life... so everyone is
excited to think that this is what he really thinks, what he really
feels....

I don't know.  Luckily, this segment of life is enough past that I can write
it without fearing too much for myself.  Without fearing too much that
people will remember what it is, who it is.  Themselves.  Was I really like
that?  But of course no one will know.  That is one of those things, is it
not?  One of those startling things.... I don't know why I expect people to
know or care about what things are.....

There is something about life that I cannot fathom.  There is something
about life that I cannot understand or unravel yet... Change words -- not
can't but don't.  I can understand it.  I just don't yet understand it.
What?  I don't even know what that is... I can sense it -- like movement by
some object in my peripheral vision.  It bothers me.  But I don't know what
it is yet.

There is something in the idea of quantum structures in the brain, I think.
In vibration's ability to affect us.  In vibrations giving each individual
cell the ability to think.  And perhaps, then, there is something within us
that allows for each part of ourselves to remember thinggs.  Is this why we
train our muscles to respond automatically?  Is this what happens?  do we
find that there is soemthing within us that responds?  That learns?  Not the
mind, but the muscles themselves?  Aligning their microtubules and pulsing
their vibrations at exactly the right frequency to generate thoughts (well,
responses and memories of a sort) of their own?

And racial memory then; it is th evibration passed from mother to child.
What is the purpose of the brain, then?  What can the brain do for us?  Is
it a controller?  a higher level interface?  Or perhaps it is below.
Perhaps it is the slave to this other thinking system?  Perhaps the brain is
the consciousness of the human.  It is not responsible for the primary
thinking of it, but it does generate, initiate the commands.... The basic
computer beyond which is the vast resources of the microtubule cells....

[End Morning Freewrite]