A book is a happy thing when it has such a body.
But a body is a costly thing, and a book's body no less so. I have risked much in order to give birth to this body, this heffalump, this, in all, 319-page story consisting in a total of 236 poems.
All my hard calculations show clearly that I am losing - materially speaking, that is. How much I am prepared, indeed, able to lose in this gamble? What am I gambling, actually?
Am I enjoying the process?
Yes. I am enjoying the process of taking the risks I am taking. I no longer fear or hope. I am simply, fully inside the process, this path I have chosen.
The path is more uphill than I expected, but that is the nature of paths. When I get to the 'top', what will I see or discover? I do not know. And that is why I am doing it. It's my duty to life, to God, to myself, to the time I have in this body I have borrowed from the elements.
What am I risking?
I am risking losing my fear of being read and judged: this has already happened and is deeply rewarding, and also interesting.
I am risking fulfilling a longing: this, too, has already happened and is lovely, liberating.
Yes, there is the risk of material loss, but such loss will not ruin me any more than I have been ruined in the past.
The advantage of a past like mine is that it has reduced me to a hard pip filled with arsenic: like an almond or an apple seed.
Am I fooling myself? What is the worst that could happen?
The worst would be if I lost touch with the divine spark, with God, with the simple things, with my beloved, with my love. And I daily take huge care that this does not happen, because those things are the foundation of my life. It is in those things that my book is rooted. Including its body.
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