Tuesday, June 25, 2013

It seems like a long trip to make, to leave the bar and its convivial life and return to the quiet.  At the bottom of writing there is prayer.  Prayer involves the thinking, aligning life back again from the schizophrenic dual life.  One week, an extra shift on a Saturday night, a Thursday meeting and I had lost the vision of Amherst, didn't know how to write anymore.  And so I lay in bed and prayed, a form of writing, the deeper thought-gathering from which will be gathered remnants cooperative enough to put down.

What is the spiritual life?  How do we fit into it?  Was what I was doing, aiding and abetting the world of illusions in the name of making a buck?

The writer doesn't mind the lumps.  Grist for the mill.  How else do people socialize?

But why do I feel myself rejecting the livelihood?  Could I not control myself from falling into it?

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