The room. Been a while, couple years. Familiar surroundings. The half dead imagination. Nearly blank page. Timer set for an hour in the taskbar. Is this what self-discipline is all about, dragging myself into a situation without inspiration, sans ideas, mind’s eye on the countdown? Well, it will have to do. No telling what I might find here and through those doorways marked music-abstract-how and heat-summer-tease-longing and what-is-progress?
What do I have going for me? How can I write this stuff out of nothing? I see it as energy into matter tranference. The matter, memory and experience obvious like thought-bass rising in the lake, heavy with intent. Energy times chaos squared. It’s all out there and in here, just like the formula, except that “c” isn’t a constant. Chaos is infinite, reassuring, pleasant, and usually elusive. It occurs to me that writing isn’t merely a means of expression. More intensive, serious writing becomes meditation. Introspection. Writing gives us the impression of knowing ourselves. More still. Less of ourselves it closes the ego gap between us and the outside of us. Putting ideas into words means relinquishing preconceptions, losing directionality, in favor of losing that our way and allows us to float through what we. And what we are is part of everything. That’s a big leap from the social decorum roadmap, from conversations, from career-tool handling. Here we can be as free from constraint as we let ourselves, immersed in the blank page of possibility.
Once again I’ve justified my one hour a day travels. The last time was 2 ½ years ago in that beginning of all months, October. As I remember, the first question of the second installment was, “What do I write about?” And I answered with, “Write about not being able to write about anything.” Stepping, that was the important thing, just as the step of setting the one hour timer today. I knew that once begun, the words would lend themselves to a few areas I could make worthy and images mages would appear like flashes through gauze scrim lit from behind.
Do I seek beauty? Yes, but not the sunset or wet-lipped kind; the beauty of enlightenment. The sense that I’ve let a small part of myself go, selflessly and intentionally, in order that the experience of writing, however word-stunted, without end, moves on without purpose. A joyful, pointless wallow. How can any sense come from such an endeavor? By way of unfiltered subject matter, topics unfettered by years of sage input. One sign of poor writing is translation. Our minds are heavy with facts, nearly concrete images, slogans, quotations from great men. A decent article about consumerism can be composed by anyone possessing a wealth of such material, but the result will be nothing more than a sophisticated rehash. I seek more. I seek creation with its jarring, juxtaposed, often non-sensed word images. I’m not a translator; I’m a conduit between wondrous mind mess, where I finesse idea pictures through my experience, and the blank-paged, unsteady, platform of words. Here.
