But it was easy to forget. Every day you roused yourself as you could, fumbled in the kitchen, but to write, you had to look past the ego, you had to work through it, around it, over it. You had to let the inner light of mind speak out through the thick layers always sedimental, some layers hardened, such that the act felt sad and painful. Often you had to rise over the mood rendered unto you by what you'd gotten into the night before in escape of the loneness.
I am a poor servant, incapable, you would protest at the attempt, unworthy. But if it's not you, who else? Okay, I'll try. But it was hard to get past the ego, which too made its protests, not wanting you to forget that which pained you and how you felt. Ask the universe for help. Light some incense. Sip your tea. Look at what you'd written down before in the attempt to see and let the light shine out. Old circumstances fall on you, like broken plaster. Yes, the time there was peace walking with her, but you didn't nail down the date to see Jungle Book, shame on you. One thing enough to stop you.
What if I quit my job. Got away from the wine, away from the ego, away from the circular trap. Where could I go to more purely serve? Without this fakery in the very middle of it. Simple nourishment would do, this is made clear by the loaves and the fishes. Wine is reserved, it seems, for special occasions.
But was he not a man of sorrow... The misunderstanding always there, to teach over to those who have eyes and ears. They don't quite get it, but I will keep at it. They will backslide, but I will pull them back. It is hard work, because it makes no sense. So self-reflexive that either you get the logic or you don't. Take this cup of suffering away.
But the writer will write. What else can he do? He's done a lot of training for it, put in his time, his life, his effort, his sacrifices. He's led a strange enough life to make it happen, that which he deemed was inside of him, in need of coming out. A thing he hoped would lead him to understand that great final mystery of just what it meant to commune and keep steady company with a woman, the thing that often made him want to weep, that colored his every day with shrouding darkness, trudging underneath, putting the professional habit on over it. It wasn't just the sex part, high and tantric, a long communing, but it would extend into him, into his spirit, deep.
That's what he had hidden from, unable to face himself, unable to face the things he really had to say and teach. And the same thing had probably too made him a bit odd. His view of marriage was different from the norm. It did not involve any kind of dominance or smoothness or outer capability, conspicuous skill, nor, of course, any material security of the kind constantly referred to by any mind. House, stability, job, credential, degree, career... This hurt his own mind as much as it would have anyone else's. No wonder he napped so often, keeping the whole thing up in the air. No wonder he sought an answer.
Tough to get by on your smile. Tough to get by on being beautiful and revelatory. Hide it. No, don't hide it. The thing dogs me. But the dog is sweet, dedicated, selfless, yes, selfless.
It is no easy task. So much of the conscious mind is protective, egotistical, reading off a list of what should be done in any day.
Pray. Behold the man. Look at him.
All you had was writing. Beyond that only the mundanity of chores.
Then, having made the hard effort, having tried to break through, even as you went about little chores and ate breakfast, things would improve.
Then to get over the fear, on a daily basis, of people, of needing and wanting things, the basics of life, the additional things like having a friend solder a loose wire on the jack of an old electric guitar. The fear of being moral, flawed, transparent, the fear of admitting the need for friendship and approval and love from other beings. Things difficult for a stubborn Capricorn.
Should I go out of the house? On the road? What would that entail?
That was it. The fear, natural to a writer, of his thoughts overrun. Until he'd written, was ready to go down into the arena. Thus was it better to write then to not write, because if you did not write, then you would not know when you were ready to face people. Rising above the shyness all the greats, from inward bent, possess. Above the fear of his own stupidity and awkwardness toward practical things. Above the fears that came after deeply inhabiting the inner mind and the emotional parts of himself than having to pull away, for reference.