The Bunny That Couldn't Lay Eggs

Pardon me, at 01:26 in the morning I’m listening to Maxwell’s Embrya, and even today I still get stuck at track 7 – Know These Things: Shouldn’t You. 

The lyrics go something like…

You stung, as if you knew I'd sting right there
And you shouldn't know these things about me
Abused as if your pain would quench my fear
How could you know these things about me

You shouldn't know these things
And be this awfully well in tune
Go as if not aware be like those others that assume
You knew and you still managed to find my stare
And you shouldn't know these things about me

You shouldn't know these things about me
And be this awfully well in tune
Go on as if not aware
Go on and be those that presume
That they could know these things about me

Be as if not aware
Be mystified as this appears
Lay still, be as my will
And promise that you'll wait to kill
And whisper that you know these things
Tell me you know these things
Show me you know these things
About me

You’re fortunate because you only get to read the lyrics – I’m unaided and unprotected against the melody and delivery that accompanies them as I try to make sense of the writing I had planned to do through the weekend. All I ever did was feel words orbit my whole being, yet I failed to put them on paper. It wasn’t on purpose. I just couldn’t. L Not even Coke could help. Sigh.

I was supposed to commence writing the second edition of THE RIGHT TO MOURN and start on THE MEMOIRS OF A CHIEF USHER, but writing didn’t feel right this weekend, and NO! it has nothing to do with the fact that a bunny can’t lay eggs. It just didn’t feel like it was time. Somehow, all I know is that I had to be ready. I just had to wait in this regard. Afterall, "Everything is beautiful in it's time".

Alas! I remembered this piece by Tom O’Bedlam:

so you want to be a writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

And so, I wait patiently for you, words; your body farriers me between worlds.

~Mzilikazi