Seven-week Witness

non-subject:  "struggling"
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At some point I must get the events of the past seven weeks out of my head and onto the paper.  I have written some of it, not all the writing has come forth in what I think of as "memoir-style."  Maybe someday my thoughts regarding "memoir-style" will broaden.

In what writing styles have I penned some of these past seven-week events, this seven-week saga, this seven-week witness?  Memoir, journaling, lists, thought records.  All have been for me to try to understand, to sort, to delineate, to heal, to express, to create, to know myself.

For seven weeks, I've been honored by the presence of a soul so very deep, so very tender, so very desirous of understanding, so very aware of nuances in speech and body, so very intelligent; yet so deeply hurt, so much grief, so much suppressed pain, so much injury, so much courage, so much resourcefulness to survive a tumultuous inner and outer world where only the brave dare enter.  I hope the future brings a great joy of realization and wholeness to that soul; a growing into an adulthood that never loses the ability to play.

Yes, it has been a "seven-week witness."  Not only of another, but also of myself.

Yes, to know myself.  Whether others understand my need to write is beside any point of writing whatsoever.  Whether any other human eyes scan my scratchings, scribblings, typos, obscene or decent phrases is nihil ad rem.  I write for me.  Some call that selfish; so be it, at least for now.

I struggle, because I desire to write of good times with my family of origin, my family now, my days of maturing, the years of growing into new ages.  I refer to my ever growing years above 50 as "new age," not "old age."  I don't mean new age in the sense of the New Age Movement with its nonsensically-spiritual, garbley-gooked, nebulously-laced, nothingness speak.  But rather "new age" in the sense that with each year I gain a number, I enter a new age. A new age of regeneration to explore unexplored worlds.

What usually comes forth from my keyboard are not the so-called "good times." "Good times" seems to me such a trite phrase at the moment.  It doesn't embrace the fullness of life.  For me life isn't "good" and "bad," "positive" and "negative."  So what is it?  Bood and gad?  Negposevity?  Posnegivety?  I like the third one:  posnegivety.  Interesting that the work "give" stands out in "posnegivety."  And "pose" is there too, if the letters are scrambled a bit.

I must write of the "seven-week witness."

I will.  And of the struggle last night to see Rhia off on the bus, that bus with the big Greyhound racing forward to what lies ahead.

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