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Monthly Archives: June 2015

What It’s All About

A couple of years ago, I started writing again after a big gap. Writing was always fun and easy (relatively) for me, so I wasn’t worried about getting back to it. Well, it was harder than I thought. I didn’t end up writing whatever I was trying to write that day. I wrote this instead.

            I’ve heard many people say that a mind is a terrible thing to waste. After too many years of wasting mine, I can only say that a mind is a terrible thing to waste away. I tried to think today, and I felt like someone who’s been lying in a hospital bed for months, trying to get up and walk. I can remember being able to do it, but my body doesn’t remember how.
            I used to think. Honest. I remember being able to think. To reason, even. I remember being able to create words on a page, create stories, bring what I imagined to life. I swear I used to do that. Now, I’m staring at this page thinking… Well, trying to think. Mostly I’m staring at the page. Head in my hands, I’m looking at the screen as if I expect it to do tricks. I know it requires my input. Words will not appear on the page if I continue to sit and stare at it. That would be nice (pretty awesome and freaky, actually), but it’s not going to happen.
            So how to relearn to think? The hospital patient would get physical therapy for their muscles and weight training to build then up again. I picture weight training for the brain, and all I get is an image of a hand weight in a pile of gelatinous goo. Oops. That’s not it. Maybe it would be reading serious books, well-written books with big words in them. Maybe I should do math problems. Heck, maybe I just need to write. Write everyday. Write and write and write whatever crap comes out until it starts to be good again.
            And hope it’s not too late.

That’s what this blog is about.

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Angles of Difference 1

06:29:15-ClimbedATree.Diverged.1
The dwarves made me.

Love

Celebration and joy
One promise
Two lives
Hand to hand
Heart to heart
Two rings
Two people
Complete
One life for life

Can’t

Vile curse, self-imposed
Set the limits,
Brittle and cold

Harsh truth, self-explained
Range of possibility
Acknowledged and named

Cruel lies or deliberately blind –
Belief breaker: belief designed.
Hiding from or hiding behind?


The People Paradox

I don’t know me yet
How could you?
You might know a part
Or two.
Based on something
You know I do.
Which makes me question
Who are you?

Not Exactly

06:21:15WritersNotPeople
Writers should get extra votes really.

When IDEAS Attack

             Anyone with the smallest creative bent has had that moment when an IDEA kidnaps your focus. And I do mean IDEA. Not a measly little idea that makes you think, “That would be cool,” but a Russian dominatrix IDEA that grabs you by the balls and demands fulfillment now and on her terms. Metaphorically, speaking. The point is you will do it, and you will do it now.

            This is when the artist becomes the slave to the art, and it’s not the type of moment that happens conveniently behind closed doors when you ask politely for inspiration. No, IDEAS come from outside stimulus. Whether it’s a Youtube video of a band, a comment from your boss, or a passing action by a stranger, something about the turn of phrase or thought catalyzes a reaction in the brain and gives birth to a cerebral traffic cop, re-routing priorities and upsetting any plans or schedules. This could be a brief delay or an entire detour that you cannot escape without consequences.

            Let’s say you’re in the weekly office meeting, and in your boss’s prepared comments, some offhand remark flips the IDEA switch. Suddenly, you’re designing in your mind: colors, shapes, sounds, and textures. You’re adding layers: shaping, melding, removing, and shifting until a rough model glows in your mind with context and materials, notes and lyrics, shadows and light. Your body may still be in the meeting, your eyes open, but your awareness and your sight are so completely internal that only when that rough draft is done, the IDEA sated, are you again aware of the reality around you.

            Shit, he’s still talking. How much did I miss? How long did that take?

            It’s no wonder much of society thinks that artists are ditzy and flighty. So often, we can’t even have a conversation without getting lost in our own minds. Even those with artistic bents who’ve had occasional IDEAS consider the frequency of artists’ side trips self-indulgent and weak-willed. But when you have dedicated yourself to an art, when that is your career and your focus, IDEAS are the moments you live for. They are the treasure you struggle to find buried in yourself as you work and sweat in your home. They’re the dropped coins on the street that hunger has trained you to look for or the forgotten child that you shelter from the world.

            IDEAS are an artist’s career. Focusing on one in conversation is like excusing yourself for a business call. Ignoring one is like a retail clerk ignoring a customer to talk to a friend. You can’t guarantee when another customer will come or that another one will come at all. It may be rude, but it’s both the business we’ve chosen and a result of how we’ve trained our minds to see.

             Unfortunately, stepping out for a moment (mentally) is still easier for most people to understand and accept than the second, stronger kind of IDEA. This isn’t the brief delay where you seem to space out for a minute and then come back. No, this kind of IDEA is even more consuming and cannot be appeased by a rough draft or few moments of thought. It must be explored now, created now.

            My first experience with this strength of inspiration came in my Junior year of high school. My English teacher drifted off-topic and told us a personal story that touched a chord in me and fired a need to create that I had never experienced before. It was a poem. It hadn’t been written yet – it didn’t exist in any way, shape, or form – but I knew it was a poem. I had to write it. It wasn’t something I could ignore or put off, I had to write it then. Like a compulsion or spell, it pulled at me and commanded I obey, or I knew the poem would be gone forever.

            I wrote through that class and the next and the next. I forced myself to write class notes on one side, as quickly as possible, while the poem took form on the other. Even then, I don’t think I really heard or understood what anyone said to me, it passed through a part of my brain and on to the paper even as the rest of my mind shaped and sculpted words and lines to appease the fever that held me.

            When the last line finally sat on the page, that terrible pressure disappeared like a rough storm at sea finally releasing a battered ship. Disoriented, dazed, the crew recovers and slowly starts putting the ship to rights, returning to normal life. My classmates may have thought I was drugged or ditzy, I don’t know. I only remember feeling drained as I emerged from my mind and took in the world again. Maybe an exorcism is a better example, and the spirit possessing me finally fled. The stories of séances where the ghost takes over the host’s hand and writes until his/her story has been communicated to the world certainly rings with the feeling of that compulsion.

            Not that I blame IDEAS on ghosts.

            But that compulsion to create shows the strength of this kind of inspiration. Ignoring one can be painful both in resisting the compulsion (think of an addict resisting their drug of choice) and in trying to recreate it later, at a more convenient time. For those who cherish the art inside us, trying to breathe fire into embers of what was (you swear!) a really good idea and being unable to rekindle it to equal flame is another pain and grief.

            So the next time you see someone staring off into space or scribbling on a napkin and muttering, know that you are watching an IDEA attack and pay your respects to the artist in its thrall.


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