I have ideas. Yes, I know everyone has ideas all the time. But I really like my ideas. Some of them are silly and playful, some are so creepy that I am afraid to be alone in a room with myself. Some are beautiful, others are grotesque.
An image might fly by of a rainbow arching over blue surf, under which swim sharks with bloody teeth.
I might picture a monster, a person deformed and alone with a heart like a cobbler, two layers of hate crust with love and kindness filling.
Sugar plum fairy fashion shows, the infant spirit of humanity starving from the lack of the milk human kindness, or blue grass, green skies and giant rampaging sheep.
Ideas fly in and out of my ears all day long.
Tiny butterflies.
Bright colors, many textures, sounds and smells. The world I wish was, the world I fear might be. I think about all the people I could have been: the opera singer or the serial killer, or maybe a serial killing opera singer.
Each of my butterfly thoughts wants to just flutter away, maybe to enter your mind for a moment, or to join the stars in the sky.
However, as I said before, I like my ideas. I am the type of person who takes pictures; a picture is a frozen memory of a place, a moment that I can keep forever. My ideas are the same, memories of worlds I have never been to and moments I never lived. But I want to keep them all the same.
So I reach up into the air and grasp the tiny, delicate, struggling insect. Then I shove a big pin through its thorax.
That is writing.
Some of these dead butterflies I lacquer and mount in pretty cases to share with you.
Others I keep in dusty notebooks just for me.
Weaving Reality 