Archive for the ‘ Writing ’ Category

Crashbox

Annoyed, I wrote a fairly long post and my app crashed and deleted it.

I remember most of it, however the reasons and emotions that had guided the way I wrote them down, the wordplay and grammar/syntax/structure of the writing are all now several hours old.

You can never feel something exactly the same way twice. It’s why I like to capture the immediacy of every moment.

Ugh. I think I’m actually really pissed about this. That, in and of itself, is remarkable.

Creati(‘)ve

My creativity comes and goes these days, flickering in and out like a dying lightbulb; buzzing frantically as it struggles to stay lit.

I’m finding ideas hard to find, inspiration now here, now there; no(w)here.

At least I can still be clever about writers block.

Well, not really block, more like writer’s caution tape, I think. I just need the motivation to jump over and see what’s waiting…

Waiting, what am I waiting for?

The machinery of the night

I gaze into the night sky and the stars pull me into the heavens, running ever upward on paths of coherent light.

Nights like these, when the ancient mysteries feel so close to the surface; almost magical and so full of promise.

Inside, I find hope restored and faith renewed. I find that there are no memories of you, or you, or you…

A field of unbroken snow, gleaming, casting starlight back at the sky in my mind.

I’ve heard it said that life’s joys are measured in moments, truly, moments like those are worth all those that try one’s soul.

Every broken heart is made new in time, finding strength in the weakness that recedes after each piece is re-placed.

Stitches and staples, bandaids and tape, each tracing a path taken, pain taken; a patchwork of wisdom won the hard way.

I treasure the wounds as much as the smiles and laughter. Each and every one has made me a stronger, and I hope, a better human.

forget me

I found this on my hard drive, I remember writing it, but the emotions attached to it had flown. It comes back as I mouth the words, the cadences rolling through my mind; pause, line, break: feel.

I’ve always enjoyed the fact that once I’ve written something down, something that made me feel or was the result of something I had felt that it comes back the moment I re-read it.

It’s a time capusle, a glimpse at who you were and what you felt at some past moment in your life.

What a gift. Language, I mean; the ability to capture the abstract and ephemeral and set it down forever.

forget me

familiar paths and hallways,
flow by me.
forget me.

i can’t sleep anymore,
you’ll never feel the cold,
because you’re not for me (i’m not for you).
forget me.

seasons grow brittle,
i’d like to escape.
forget me.

i’m freezing in this endless summer,
i’d build a world for you,
but i’m no longer that kind of joy.
forget me.

I may have posted this before, or maybe I had read it recently, It just feels familiar. I wrote it five years ago and it still resonates. My life runs in concentric circles. Growing ever outward, encompassing more and more time and space, and yet somehow still drawn to the same spaces that my mind inhabits, in perpetuity? Perhaps, but for now, yes.

Tapestry

I was going through the last few months of posts while I silently debated the direction of my novel.

Dear add meds, thanks for the focus necessary for the aforementioned multitasking.

It’s funny, I’d never been able to focus on my studies, in high school they assumed I was bored with the curriculum and I was, just not in the manner they supposed.

I was talking to my dad about the fact that I was never diagnosed with it until college because my ‘rents don’t believe that add exists. He said, “sucks to have hippie parents doesn’t it boy?” and recommended a heavy metal detox to improve my concentration.

God love ya dad.

In any case, my grades are always good, although I sincerely have no idea how to study. Luckily for me I can skate by with my (very nearly) perfect memory for anything I see, hear or read.

I often wonder where I’d be today if my ability to concentrate were a match for my memory.

C’est la vie, nothing is truly gained by such exercises. I am where I am meant to be. Although I’d imagine that I’d at least have taken over this hemisphere by now if I weren’t so easily distracted by shiny things.

“I have known no man of genius who had not to pay, in some affliction or defect, either physical or spiritual, for what the gods had given him.”

~Max Beerbohm

At any rate, the new power cord for my laptop arrived yesterday and I am writing furiously, insensate to all else that flows by me. I had been literally lost, ideas running through my mind with no outlet, no place for them to go; folding back in among themselves, combining with other ideas: a confused welter of thoughts and feelings, melting into a stream of potential.

It’s always the visual. I can literally see a glowing flow of them running through my mind. Close my eyes and there they are, golden and gleaming, lit up like a city against the dark tapestry of my mind.

Waiting, rushing forth at my call, begging me to make them real.

Rudyard’s Yard

“Don’t talk of worlds that never were, the end is all that’s ever true. There’s nothing you can ever say, nothing you can ever do.”
– the cure

It’s been an odd few weeks. I find myself pulled south, far south to the gulf. I wonder if it is just my natural wanderlust kicking in or if there is something more waiting on the coast. I miss the saline tears of ocean spray on my face, surely, as much as I miss believing in a dream.

I often think that perhaps I think more than is good for me. But for some reason I cannot quite grasp I find my thoughts constantly turning toward the sun and sand of Louisiana. The swamp and the river compete for my attention in my dreams. I remember the smell of the jungles of my boyhood and often wake with a slight upturn to my lips, a curving smile that actually reaches my eyes.

The jungle has a smell/sound that will forever be imprinted in my mind, whenever it rains in the summer I am suddenly in central-american rainforest, wondering-wandering through my earliest years.

Omnia Causa Fiunt.

Why

I am a catalyst. A brazen wish; something half-way made and not-entirely sane.

I rather enjoy this shell that I inhabit, and that “I” inside is a perfect fit. I wonder what other people believe about this life.

Not the empty things they mouth in class or at church, but what they really believe, deep down, those thoughts they never share; that’s where you find the real measure of someone. I’m always open to discussion, to theorizing; finding truths and guesses.

I think that it’s important to understand where we’ve come from, it may give us some clues as to where we’re going; as a species and as individuals.

I’ve heard so many ideas about the how and when and the where: my favorite question, since I was a little boy, has always been why? it’s my favorite, I believe, simply because it’s almost always pure theory and for me a person’s theories are the best way to understand them, and I study people (anthro geek baby!) because to me they’re the most interesting and dynamic thing going on…and because it gives me a better understanding of real cultures so I can create fake ones in my books.

That was an incredibly long sentence. My apologies about the structure. In any case, some people will never make sense to me. No matter how well you think you know a person there is always a little held back, a little corner that’s off limits. I believe it’s because we wouldn’t like what we’d find there.

Like the heart of darkness, up that river lies only pain and sadness. Unfortunately for me, “why” always lies up that river and I’m a strong swimmer.

Two plus two equals four. Agreed? Okay, now tell me why.

Meddle(r)s

I’m not certain I know what I want to say today, I woke up oddly disconcerted.

I am, sadly I think, unable to process it as yet. Which is in itself odd for me, I can generally place the source of most things rather quickly.

On to other things, perhaps more important than my vague sense of unease today.

Life has been fairly busy lately, which hasn’t given me much time to think, or write, or let out most of what I want to get out of my mind.

I feel filmy and sort of unreal. It’s as though the reel is unraveling at both ends and I stand in the midst, meddling in the middle; trying desperately to stay whole and in motion.

it’s the middle of the meddle, and I’m not allowed to leave, you took the shine off of everything, now there’s nothing I believe.

I wrote that years ago, not knowing why the words came to me, oddly now they feel like prophecy.

This is why I am strange and have quite possibly lost the plot. Ah well, at least it’s never boring in here.

I think I’ll leave it at that.

iWonder

I had often wondered how people could become so sad, until of course, I experienced some sadness myself.

I survived, I got my mind back and while my heart has a few stitches and dents in it, it’s still quite functional – just a bit more cautious and maybe a little wiser.

Life is for the living. Stay there if you can.

I think that everytime something or someone hurts you that you kind of die a little faster for a little while.

Sort of.

I think its a combination of the effects of stress and depression coupled with the idea that your mind can affect your body; like the placebo effect but in a harmful way.

Conversely, I also believe that if you can find a way to stay above the pain you can keep yourself in the land thereof for a while longer than you perhaps would have.

Just throwing this out there but:

I have some very odd theories on life, the universe and the purpose and meaning of both.

Someday I may even share some of them. Maybe.

I also wonder where the job title ‘sage’ went. Where did they go? I still hear about ‘sage advice’ but seriously, when was the last time you met a sage?

My point exactly. Ah well, maybe the world doesn’t need or want sages anymore. I always imagine them as opinionated people, ones that make nuisance of themselves until their most excellent advice is taken. Come to think of it, the world could use some sages.

There are many, many other things that I wonder about. My mind is a strange place, a place where quantum mechanics sit down to lunch with post-modern theory and discuss the finer points of deconstructionism, or maybe it was structuralism they were discussing…or was that at tea?

You get the point I trust. I am always interested in learning, in knowledge of any sort, be it applied or theoretical, fantastic or mundane. I love the new, the old, the ordinary and the extra-.

I love writing most of all, even when it only makes sense to me.

*This post was weirdly disjointed. I am both a fan of it and not quite sure if I like it simultaneously. I suppose one can never be sure of something written after waking up from odd dreams.

Passion(ate)

I’ve been thinking (dangerous, I know). I remember the kid I was, this egotistical, slightly off-kilter mess of a boy…he was a dreamer.

He had so many plans and ideas. Some things never change, some things, do.

I can remember when I started college, when all sorts of amazing information was literally being thrown at me. It was absolutely amazing.

There were so many possibilities, every horizon was wide-open and inviting with promises of adventure.

I was certain I was going to change the world. So very certain that my ideas would make things better; would make some sort of difference for the people on this ball of water and rock in space.

To an extent: I still am.

My parameters have changed somewhat, my dreams tempered by experience. It’s somewhat sad, to think that dreams must be broken and reforged to survive this world.

As one of my favorite authors says: “I didn’t make the world, I only try to live in it.”

I think about every piece of writing I’ve ever read, novels, textbooks, scientific journals…the list could literally take me days but I’m not trying to list everything I’ve read that will make me sound uber-smart and ultra-snarky.

What I’m getting at is that you will find meaning everywhere. There are novels I’ve read that literally had one sentence that gripped me, one sentence which connected me to the writer, soul to soul. And those fifteen or twenty words made reading the other seventy-five thousand or so absolutely worth every second it took to do so.

I’ve found absolutely elegantly constructed bits of pure inspired heart in the driest journal on computer science.

It’s about passion. If you are passionate about what you are writing it flows through, it makes you more eloquent, it gives you a fire that comes through your words. It creates something ethereal, almost magical and certainly something so surreal conceptually. It creates a bond between two people who have never met in the flesh. For a moment or two you are absolutely connected.

I mean how freaking cool is that?