How do I know who I am?

How do I know who I am? Is that even a useful question? Clearly, to myself at least, I am. Obviously most folk have a similar experience, unless otherwise cursed or damaged. But What/Who?

For a long time I struggled to see myself just as a human being. Upbringing leaves us with stacks of labels, brother, son, man/boy, funny looking cowlick, later lover, father, writer, moody old man.

Labels I am not, but the sequence tells a story. As a human being, among other human beings, the only distinguishing characteristic I value is what lives (and has lived) in the will. We walk among each other, feeling separate, graving connection. At the same time it is we who most often make connection difficult.

On Facebook people post stuff. We go to the Facebook groups seeking birds of a feather (unless one is broken in some odd way). All of us are broken and wounded, by the way. But most of us don’t crave to hang out in cyberspace with trolls, and liars, and mockery. Different strokes sort of covers that.

But still, why do I go where I go on Facebook?

Sadness, mostly. Wonders I have been graced with in this life, and it is a matter of spiritual health to a writer, to write. If we don’t (some garden, some paint, some argue – more different strokes), … if writers don’t let the thoughts flow through, the soul becomes constipated, which itself is very irritating.

Writer’s bloc, by the way, is a misnomer. The fingers work, the pencil works, the keyboard works and the blank page is virginal. What happens is not a bloc, so much as constipated mass of thought. Too many thoughts. Choice becomes difficult. Mood and feelings can change from moment to moment, yet the fact remains the fingers still work. Why are we holding back?

An absence of self-trust mostly, and too much familiarity with the Imp that immediately tells you that you have just laid a word-turd on fresh white paper. So amazed by our own internally self-judging, we then delete, crush into a ball, and throw it out with the trash.

Writers write. Just write. Don’t judge. Don’t color inside the lines. Write of erotica, and grisly murders. Try to be boring on purpose. Fundamentally writing is play, so play like everyone is watching, and screw them all if they don’t get you.

I like screaming, sort of for spice, especially when an errant keystroke deletes a line I really really liked, and on which I spent a lot of time.

Writers love to suffer. Makes them think of themselves as wise. The core problem seems to be originality, and a fancy expecting to make a lot of money as a writer.

Writers drink in order to not give a fuck. If you can achieve that without intoxication, of whatever nature, then consider you self blessed.

One of the greatest American writers of the 20th Century, Ray Bradbury, is supposed to have worked at a News-stand in downtown L.A., and when not working was holed up in fleabag hotel writing. Did this for over ten years, found his voice, and then rewrote all those treasures/experiments, which tended to grow surprising flowers of thought and art spontaneously.

Me, … I got stuck having visions gods&goddesses, which is clearly a curse (the opposite of “Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe”). They – the mad gods&goddesses play the soul’s of fools-of-god, as if a human being was a flute in need of help and repair. For a writer, you have to let it all go through, however other people choose to take it.

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