On lost diatribes

See, this is how my diatribes get started. It begins innocently enough, I make a small comment on Facebook, and then it won’t let me alone, it keeps pestering me, breeding in my mind, and I keep trying to clarify and organize, my muddled sentences, raging dyslexic that I am, and soon there are hundreds of phrases slugging each other, out of context, wanting some semblance of order, jockeying for a position in line. Next thing I know, 3.75 hours have passed. My eyes are bloodshot. My head hurts. I look like Lurch. Don’t encourage me. You know I can’t stop. It’s like an addiction, this revisioning process. Call it a written from of logorrhea. How did Charles Dickens do it month after month, year after year, serially writing novels without editing? Did you know revision means to see again? I can’t stop seeing the connections between things—that’s the problem. Even when they’re not there. They insist. Like the difference between caribou and reindeer, mercury levels in fish, tilting planets.Then Facebook usually decides that my constant revisioning process somehow violates community standards, and slaps me in the honor farm jail, like that one in Santa Venecia. So, locked out of my own post, I usually move it over to my blog, work on it some more. But it’s still not done with me. And on it goes. There’s something tribal about it. Polishing the words until they shine like moonstone and jasper trade beads. The thing is, I shouldn’t even be a writer fergawdsakes, I mean, I have freakin’ dyslexia, I have to work harder than the average bear just to make sense out of sense.