March 3, 2008

During the first night, I was terrified of the novelty of my new surroundings. I attempted to breathe in the exotic chilled nocturnal breeze, but my lungs lacked the capacity to accommodate such a miraculous air. I sensed my body being galvanized a revolution of unimaginable sorts. I was not in control. A warring sense of chaud and cold began to encompass my entire being—it was a most extraordinary feeling of euphoric panic. I was outside of my domicile, experiencing the first of my many panic attacks in Canada. The air was the catalyst of my culture shock. My body, without any knowledge of this alien environment reacted irrationally. I vomited on the driveway.

I wrote this last year. But something has transfixed me. I’m not blocked…

I want to transform my writing.

I need to find the voice to speak, simply. Where can I locate the words to set me free from this complex? I’ve been thinking about tools. Audre warned us about the tools–they won’t dismantle that fucker’s house. But I am filled with fear that I have been overcomed by that fucker–he raped the voice out of me. and I’m not going to let him have it for one more second.
Audre, cuentame, how did you do it?


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