Last time I saw you, or I thought so, you were Bill then. You became William instead. I was Donna, now I am Dona with one "N". It has been a lot of years and I blocked who you were. I have recreated who I am over and over. Once again recreating myself, coming to the computer at night, too tired for a life of assessments and memories. Yet when I get here I become free. I am keeping my commitment to myself in this long life. I can say I want to exercise my ability to write well at this time of night. In the morning I reassess. I'm not sure what I can even say, except in some far off memory. Logged in a distant file, I just ramble out whatever I want... Such control I have for myself as I write. I can be careless with my words and thinking when writing, unless otherwise being pointed into refinement. Then I remember you and your words. I am fond of writing poems when stimulated as my words form a poetic blaze. I love those opportunities. This is where I can be my own editor. Another purely selfish act sending words into the universe. I do wonder if there are any other rewards other than words here? Your words haunt me William, as you do; "You make too many mistakes in your writing.” If you pay more attention, you'd see them and correct them. Or, get a copy editor”! In William once Bill terms "Respect your Language." Do I have to pay so much attention? Oh I don't want to be so conscious and assessed. I have a husband for that and he is often my copy editor. It seems I need editing and always have. I need freedom as well. I respect words and the images they create. Perhaps that is what paralyzes me when writing… The assessment factor of a perfectionist. So what else do you have to teach me in this memory! A memory of so much unfettered action and emotion. Perhaps freedom was not at the beginning in our youth. I wish I could have let you take my virginity. It was lost in Spanish Harlem and he thought I was lying when I told him. I just wanted to have extra care. For it was my first time in the mystery of what was to happen because of fear. I wanted to give it in, for my skin was crawling. He didn’t care, too many ugly moments leading to that one, this became another. I told Franco and he didn't care as he pushed me only to discover I had been honest. I leaned against the sink and the evidence was complete. I wish you were my first, William, not only my first thrill. Now William you have become another editor of who I have been and who I was and what I want to become. Where are you now?
