This is raw, uncut and precisely 100 words a section.

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I have a work ethic around writing that makes me feel guilty about not exploring and elucidating in writing every idea that occurs to me to write about. I can’t seem to write to order, even on my own promptings. I suffer from what my brother (who has schizophrenia) calls ‘mental confusion’, though to a lesser degree than he, I believe, at least to the extent that I have avoided being labeled with a mental illness.

Except for the one I did get labeled with, but managed to escape by dint of ducking under their radar in every way possible.

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But I’m not here to write about the things I think about, not the good ideas I have or the novels, poems and articles that unfold like blooming flowers in my brain. I’m just here to fill that daily hundred words, and I’ve let myself fall far behind this month, so I’m just going to write in 100 word increments, more or less. Of course, by the time it appears in my blog it will have been edited and integrated into a single piece as if by magic. I have nearly the whole month of September to catch up on!

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If I hadn’t made a commitment to myself to finish an entire year of posting my hundred words a day, I might just blow September off. This is an old problem of mine, the pattern I have of dropping commitments, not finishing what I start. It’s like the garden, which at the moment is overrun by weeds and suffering from neglect. I haven’t weeded in weeks, but over the summer, I weeded some every day. I’ve lost momentum, I’m not carrying it through to the end. I hate that I do that. I want to change. I am changing now.

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The farthest I’ve ever fallen behind. What shall I write about? Don’t want to bore myself.

Muslim women covering their faces to vote: I’ve never been asked to produce photo ID when voting, what’s the big deal? Unless photo ID is required, why should these women be forced to expose their faces? I read a science fiction story about a future culture in which faces were an erogenous zone and women wore masks. Made me see how vulnerable exposing one’s face must be if you aren’t used to it. Leave them alone, big bullies. Why should they strip for you?

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The mail is slower since the advent of e-mail. Anybody noticed? It takes a week for a piece of mail to crawl from Hornby Island to Shawnigan Lake, a distance I can drive in five hours, ferry time included. What’s up with that?

Conspiracy: ‘They’ like to abuse their power; they make us suffer gratuitously. Postal rates rise while postal service deteriorates, because they have us by the short and sweets and they know it.

Metaphysics: What do you expect when you call it ’snail mail’? Poor critter has no choice but to respond to our collective perception and judgment.

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So which is true? Neither. Both. Reality is too fractally complex to be defined in words, even many volumes of words. So there. My problem is I know too much, I see too much. I am higher than acid. Acid just randomizes what I already perceive just fine, thank you. But I am not mentally organized. On the contrary. My mind is both stuck in old past patterns and confused by perceptions which differ radically from eye to eye and sense to sense. I am plugged in. It’s not my fault, it just happened that way.

I blame my childhood.

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As a child, I was planted with seeds of both grandiosity and humility. On the grandiose side, I was made aware that I was gifted far beyond the average. I could ‘go far’. My teachers planted this particular seed, some of them letting me know in overt and subtle ways that they believed I was once-in-a-lifetime exceptional. Grandiose.

Humility came when I got the message from home that it didn’t much matter what sort of grades you got or how good you were at stuff. Everybody is equal and the same, nobody gets special treatment. Good grades? Good for you.

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Real humility came when I encountered the big world for the first time. I wasn’t nearly the big frog I had seemed in the backwoods ponds that nurtured me. Impressive to a northern teacher with fifty or a hundred students in the school is not so impressive to a city teacher with thirty different kids in every class of the day, all in the same grade.

Woh. All those people freaked me out. I was shocked into surrendering my ambitions, that had burned so bright in my last school, competing with George Belsham for the best test scores in class.

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Poor little me (there, there), wandering lost as a cloud shoved about by strong winds and crashing into treetops and mountains, don’t you feel for that scared little girl? Of course I do, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Why should we have to be embarrassed if we loved ourselves as children and that we sympathized and commiserated when they got crap thrown at them by their lives? Kids go through hell, and my little kid / I went through more than the norm. Of course I feel sad for her / me, and that’s not self-pity. It’s self-love.

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When I say ‘Hell’ I mean extreme circumstances, the fire of intensity that we all spend so much energy avoiding because we couldn’t handle the way it felt as children. We were too young! The current passion for extreme sports satisfies the letter of the desire (extremity of experience) without satisfying the essence (to feel deeply and intensely our vulnerability to life, to others and to our own sources).

Humans want to live deeply, to embrace life fully. It’s the way we are designed, upright, heart open, arms all set for embracing. And naked skins for sensuous pleasure. Why not?

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I haven’t much of a conscious mind, I suppose. My thoughts are heavy, weighty things, and the pot gets stirred so often I can’t keep hold of one thought long enough to really grasp it. Any apparent intelligence is instinctual. Words flow through me and arrange themselves in an order that conveys what body knows without my mind having to engage much except the most basic awareness.

When I first learned to read, I commanded the letters to reveal their meanings to me. They shifted around on the page and then I could read, just like that. It was easy.

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If you look at anything closely enough, it complexifies. To reduce to the so-called simplest, most basic elements of life, you first go through many layers of ever-increasing fractal complexity. When you look at a stone closely enough, it is indistinguishable from a living cell seen at the same range. Everything lives, everything dances in its own secret heart. It is wrong, inaccurate to say that the difference between animate and inanimate is the difference between life and death. All matter is alive. All life is aware of itself, even if a vague background sense of awareness. All things matter.

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‘All things matter.’ There’s a play on words in there, but I wonder how many would grok it. Why is it adjudged a waste of time and energy to bother looking at things with love? We don’t even look at people with love, except on special occasions with special people. Why such collective heartlessness?

When I let myself know the truth of what I feel and sense, which is that my attitude toward things is felt by them, affects their experience of existence in some way, I am horrified. I want to push the idea away and call it crazy.

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It’s truly tragic that love is perceived to be such hard work. Far from it! Love is the easiest thing in the universe. Love is what happens when you surrender everything, give up every fight, agree to lose and win at the same time, embracing both winners and losers as parts of your own self. Love is the body of the Whole relaxing and releasing tension. Love is the default state of things. Why did we decide to be the resistors and battlers within this system of love? There must be something right about it, for nature is never wrong.