Pull up, take a seat facing the window East, I choose, at end of day not to avoid the glare of the setting sun but because what I see out to the East is most beautiful. A garden of the library, East reminds us of where beginnings come from. At the library I am practicing fugitive writing.
Fugitive writing is like this. You go in and sit somewhere and take up any scraps of paper lying around without your bag or your shoes even, and you borrow a pen, and you write because you are rich in your soul and what you have to do here is urgent. Pay attention! I live a two-to-five minute walk from my library but I couldn’t go home to get my proper notebooks, ’cause there are no proper notebooks in life. I couldn’t go back because I stand as in Exodus, loins girded up with the fire, staff in one hand and flat bread in the other, ready to go free and tell stories. That’s what is means to be free. Don’t go back and bury your dead if you meet the Lord on the road. Follow the Spirit wherever She tells you and be rich in what She gives, even writing the scriptures on scraps of the system cast off like yourself. Don’t think yourself better than the homeless guy sleeping three tables next to you, for you are a Fugitive Writer, and your writing is in service to men such as him. We’re all equal before the Lord in our writing, our miniature scripturing. This night I walked into this library and it expanded with a buzz in my temples, opened right up with the air conditioning and colorous rows of image and knowledge. It’s a place we come to be present with Muse, who likes to roll dice with the Holy Spirit betting and laughing who will hear their call next?
Starting the 2nd page now I feel equal with the people of the earth on scrap paper, now that I am a Fugitive Writer of borrowed paper begged possibility. We’re all on borrowed time from the Lord. If you are poor you can come here and partake of free pencils where chairs will lend themselves to you to be a poor and free Fugitive Writer. Mondays are good days for this. You want to set the week up right. It is then fitting that I, sunburned this day in my labors with children, was seized by a powerful spirit of writing in intervals in the day between duties, and during duties I was pleased to get no relief. Supervising an inflatable bounce house in the half shade with not enough sunscreen I filled the fields of pages in a notebook not touched in a decade. I’m really going as fast as I can with a pencil here, but I honestly had the notebook out even when I Wasn’t Supposed To, secretly inscribing the fire that is fugitive writing poured out. You got to sneak a scribble when the power’s ain’t looking so the bolts of the system loosen to let lubricant in. If you don’t have any paper or pen on hand you can recite these things in your head to do fugitive writing. It is more difficult because the risk of forgetting is looming. You may need to bookmark your fugitive writing in tree-bark or tables or pieces of plastic to remember that story about writing like flame with your knees pulled up to your chest and a broken pen and a kid screaming three yards away. That’s a story you need to tuck for safe keeping in the folds of a steel and glass window so nobody finds it or suspects it is there, and when the coast is clear be sure to go back for it. That’s good fugitive writing. You have to write without a desk, all the time. Only the privileged get desks and their own extension to dial and the rest of us got diapers to change or another counter to mop but be sure to know it’s OK to just tell the truth in your fugitive writing. Tell those squirrelly ideas to just wait their turn for the bounce house. You’ll take them all out to recess on the page in a minute where they’ll make exclamations of joy but for now you will have to be a fugitive writer. You may need to risk empathy for the mentally broken or neurodiverse of the earth when you find out that to talk to yourself may be the only hope left to follow the Lord where She takes you. If you were born in the lucky rooms of the world you may have a recording device to speak into so you don’t have to suffer feeling too totally awkward talking out loud to yourself. But if the fire builds up in you and Great Muse won’t leave you alone and if the wind is knocking at the tender backsides of your knees and the barbed wire is whispering and the handicapped rails are leading you down into a telling and you cannot find even a scrap paper or pencil to write, then you must be a Fugitive Writer. You are hounded in Love to tell, Fugitive Writer. The bricks and the roadsides hear what you sigh to the swallows nesting in cityscape cavities, hauled up in a library, don’t go home to bury your dead because you’re a wild-called Fugitive Writer.