It's not twenty lines a day, it's twenty (or twenty-one) sentences a day.
Can a pigeon, a homing pigeon, look forlorn when several hours, say one hundred miles away from home, it's released and flies immediately to the top of a nearby food store to look around, head tilted where the sun lolls behind fish scale clouds. Or is that (yet again) a matter of projection, especially since this reading of forlorn is most intense (most felt) the second time you pass the store - lost yourself, looking for the highway on ramp, where am I.
I don't want to share my nightmares, any of my fears, lest someone - but who am I thinking of, does it make sense if I can't name them, even imagine them in any detail - think, Ah, so that's how I get him.
Updike: paranoia is the natural state of a skidding organism. That may be a paraphrase, and don't ask me to source it.
I'd like to write an essay called The Poet Ron Atkinson. Thinking of the line that goes: "her mind said red/when the twilight." Or something like that. Related to how snow is blue but the brain insists on white. Ginsberg said - why not believe him - he heard the ancient voice of Blake, saw angels and so forth. What if you see that - the holy spirit - and your mind says, No, that's just the play of the light on the water, or the wind moving in the trees, or whatever.
"One of the few pleasures left," is a phrase I use often, in jest, but then of course there is a barb, or is it a sadness, inside the joke. I said it once about the Final Four - happening now but don't ask me diddely - and most recently while sitting in the rocking chair watching Chrisoula dress for bed.
Is it enough to risk readers or do you actually have to go out and find them and say, Hey, look at this.
People - lots of them - lending me their signature. Sure I'll sign that. Oh, I'm so happy you're doing this.
What if everything you think you know is wrong. Is it helpful, at least, to know that much?