I walk a tightrope of commutation. Words, acceptable versus truth. I do not write metaphors or use imagery but it is often perceived that way. Life moves all at once in still frames. Yesterday a mouse ran across my room and my dog pounced. The rodent’s guts hung loose from her body still warm with the movement of her last breath until all was exposed vulnerable across the dusty wood shadow of her demise. That is what writing is to me. Something beyond myself suddenly speaks. It moves slowly up through my body like an exorcism taking with it all the details of my reality until finally it shoots from my fingertips and out my mouth into ink falling synchronized onto paper. I do not like to read it and I never revise it because the face of me is not the voice of my writing. It is as though I lead two lives. Two halves of my brain working at one time in different worlds. One a caricature in a play for which the script is abstract and the other: personal. My truth breathes only when translated through words dropped. The Eucharist falls from my tongue in opposite direction of time and that is what writing is to me. That is my non-process.