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writing/post-self/idumea/003.html

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 <p>I say so often that stepping away from such a task is still writing. When I sit on the patio in front of our little bundle of townhouses and look out at the shared lawn, or when I step — <em>stepped,</em> for it is no longer here — out to the shortgrass prairie of my cocladist, to sit beside a cairn of stones or share a meal, that is still writing! Your narrator has written these words, this story, a hundred, a thousand times within her head. That is my joy, and graphomania my compulsion.</p>
 <p>When The Woman overflows, she becomes ever more herself. She is — friends, you will remember this, of course — she is already too much herself, too present, too whole, too present. This is the nature of overflowing, you see: we become so much ourselves that it begins to ache, to press at our chest from the inside. For your humble narrator, that graphomania strikes with such force that meaning falls away from my words only gibberish comes forth, or perhaps I will write the same phrase over and over and over, unable to sate my own compulsions.</p>
 <p>My astute readers will surely have picked up by now that I am riding that edge here, in these words.</p>
-<p>But, ah! This story is not about me. I am not quite overflowing yet, and The Woman most certainly is not. </p>
+<p>But, ah! This story is not about me. I am not quite overflowing yet, and The Woman most certainly is not. She is revelling in the warmth of sunlight and the dance of bees and the tickling of dandelions against her ankles and the purringly soft touch of friendship.</p>
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                 <p>Page generated on 2024-05-08</p>