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.
Fake Ancient Alien Theorist Foolishly Visits the Collective Imagination 