revisiting a post from a few months ago. it continues to linger + hover.

[my voice] writers are archaeologists of their own souls. we dig until we hit bottom only to find there is another bottom underneath and another after that. we are capable of great harm and great sacrifice, but the point of this struggle must have something to do with not giving up. for a long time i couldn’t imagine my life amounting to anything anyone else would view with respect and affection. i didn’t know there was something wrong or different about how my brain processed information and language; i believed there was something wrong with me. i still, on occasion, believe this. perhaps i always will. but even when the entire world seemed to be ganging up on me, some persisting sense of myself argued on my behalf. i can’t say why exactly, though i’ve always believed what st. augustine said to be true: “everything that is, in so far as it is, is good.” and what is good is worthwhile and prevailing. no matter how rich or powerful or intelligent or wise we are, we are also small and inconsequential and of no worth at all. everyone knows this. but we endure.

- philip schultz, poetry & dyslexia

a note from me to you on the reasons for recent readings: to practice reading in public because i’ve always been terrified of the sound of my reading voice. in particular, enunciation is important. especially when sharing ideas, intentions. the words selected resonate in some way - big or small. it’s easier and harder than i imagined. keep moving.