Prolific is as prolific does.
Got inspired to write while working on my third cup of coffee. I wait the 90 minutes I’ve given to a meeting I scheduled at IKEA in Conshohocken, PA, for Highly Sensitive Persons (HSP).
Haven’t seen hide nor hair of one. An HSPer, that is. Got the book propped up at my table: “The Highly Sensitive Persons – How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You,” by Elaine N. Aron, Ph.D.
Just noticed the author trained at the Jung Institute in San Francisco, CA. Did not know such an institution existed. It ties in nicely with Jung’s book on dreams that I read. Actually, I “studied” Jung as I began a 6-week daily dream-interpretation journal on Feb. 13, 2009. It was a Friday the 13th.
Still have all the writings. They’re buried somewhere in the house along with insurance papers, VA (Veterans Administration) documents, and a year’s worth of collected junk. Got to get them together and compiled like I recently have done with six months of Blog entries. Maybe add them to the 2-week, non-stop journal writing I pushed myself to do while at an in-patient program for veterans at the Coatesville (PA) VA Medical Center the summer of 2008.
When a veteran opened up to me, I wrote about their ailments, their suicide attempts and their bouts with alcoholism and drugs.
Will have to change their names for confidentiality purposes, although the journalist inside of me cries out to keep those facts for posterity and history.
But, some people could be hurt if I mentioned names, particularly, that of one fellow, whose exploits on the battlefields of Vietnam and the streets of Philadelphia make for the most colorful recollections of any warrior I ever met.
Has a nationally known and celebrated brother who might see such a story as an “exploitation” of secrets left better untold. At least until parties who could suffer were no longer with us to suffer.
Stay tuned, but don’t expect anything too soon.
Instead, enjoy the “post” entries I composed today (March 24, 2010) while sitting here waiting. Dug pretty deep to come up with some good recollections, if I do say so myself. They included an “out-of-body experience,” a mystical realization that “there is no ‘there’ there,” a modern-day “miracle” involving the VA, my “greatest weekend” ever, the tale of “Dr. Roach,” and of course this minor offering.
Was I just “killing time” while simply “waiting for Godot?” (Like in the play, no one showed up during my wait in real life.) Or did I open myself, allowing inspiration to visit and whisper, getting me to recall things the old-fashioned way, with a “long hand,” a pen, and a piece of paper?