I've been tearing down fences and walls only to drive more posts, string more wire, and mix another hodd of mortar myself, building them back.  It's time to remember what it is like to be bamboo, to shoot up past the fence, persist beyond the wall and find sunlight for the sheer joy of pale green growth.

Writing has taken a turn for me, and while I struggle to become among the much envied published, the need to write and satisfaction from scratching my itch has amped up beyond what I'd ever imagined.  I find myself lost more and more in a volley of words arcing one side of my brain to another and for greater and greater periods of time imagining insanity becomes easier.  Away from a keyboard, without paper and pencil, agony burns holes here and there and spongioform encephalitis fears rise. 

I counted seven thousand hours of recorded thoughts entered on my computer and had to smash my dictaphone flat in a parking lot with a brick.  My kids cried and I wondered how many things were lost and then fed us all Loco Pop creamsicles, writing notes on the back of a napkin with a crayon while Adam taught Liza to hop on one leg.  Help is coming, I told them, and it drives a Cadillac.  Adam, standing on one leg, looked up and shouted, "Eldorado!"