I have been writing faster and with better concentration in the evenings. I trust the muse, the urgent dictating and dictatorial voice in my head at night. Particularly if it's a day spent productively at other things besides writings.
For instance, yesterday, I attended people, Bugz and mba Titin and mas Aidin. I attended the clean shirt pressed on my face to stifle a heartbreak. I attended the master's lunch. Attended a trip to Tegal. Attended the master's connection with the rest of the world.
By evening, I wasn't hearing words anymore. The Voices' urgency had lost their linguistic cues. What remained was primal drive to write and be swallowed in that writing. A primal drive that abandoned all worries about coherence and cohesion.
Even when Maghrib called, and the New Hijri Year's prayers lasted late into the night, the urgency remained. Even with the break between writings to attend dinner, the last sentence waited for the next thought. I wrote without looking up. I wrote without editing. And no questions about which, what, why, who or how.
There was only writing.
I wrote, last night, to reach a thousand words. Then a couple of hundreds more. Then the night wrote through me: The attachments that fed that writing kept me up until past midnight, long after it was sent and discussed and appraised.
Similarly, the writing session in the previous evening too was as fluid. It started right after tea and lasted until the evening call for dinner. It came out as a shy letter to Kris and a Volunteer Info sheet for the UWRF group on Facebook. I fed off the afterglow of that writing until the next session. The public writing fed the private. It held me steady through the next day, when I attended others and went to Tegal. It held me up when Bugz and Wawung asked about lunch. And it pressed down grief with infinite kindness: "Not never. Just not yet."
One writing held me up through the next. And the next. And then it all held up our losses and wins together in this bulk of general, impersonal compassionate detachment.
