There is a theory somewhere in my head that I can rob myself of my own creativity. As if there are two of me (or more) and if one takes flight and writes, the other will be left with nothing. Resistance can be a funny thing when you fight against yourself. Last night I sat talking to a friend about making choices. He evaluates, weighs, decides when things are prudent, when he has the skill, the time, enough information. I respect this. But I don’t do it.
Growing up my father told us to test spaghetti by throwing it against the wall and to see if our jeans needed washing by seeing if they stoood up on their own. This is my test.
The liminal line is new for me. It’s not about Ethiopia, or climbing, or writing. It’s about that space in-between everything. It’s about the life in that sliver.