Category Archives: Consciousness

A funny thing happened, while writing.

I was just called by a pollster.  She asked my permission to engage in a few questions on current topics.

I told her.

No.  My opinions do not aggregate well.  I am a unique perspective.  I am a writer.

I was surprised at how spontaneously, powerfully, and politely, I conveyed my thoughts,  before hanging up.

I loved that I didn’t wait for her response.  Saying no feels good, when it means saying yes to something more important.

I think I am going to use this line for the forceable future, until my message gets out there, on metaphorical paper.

My opinions do not aggregate well.  I am the aggregator.  I am here to make sense of your data.

This evening has been different.

Than yesterday, and the day before.

Same pain.  More energy.  But weak.

I didn’t expect much when I approached today’s writing.  It felt perfunctory.

Then, I got going.  In the past, I would flail for days, anticipating a revisitation by my muse, sometime after my symptoms would inevitably recede.

I would write for days, waiting for creative insights to return.

However, today, although I still feel crappy, my mojo reappeared.  I wrote a thousand words, most destined for some place in my story.

I am excited, because these past six months, I have been writing in my journal about these episodic symptoms that set back my mind, every time.  I knew I needed to overcome these ill effects.

Somehow, I trusted that the seemingly endless weeks of deep concentration would eventually pay off.

My second post back from today, I attributed my new ability to brain-rewiring.

My book is being physically wired into my brain, by my mind.

A first-time writer has more to overcome than a published author.  Both are telling a story.  But a new author has to figure out how to tell a story, before doing so.

A nascent writer’s brain is pure potential, until the secrets of success unlock themselves from past habits of thinking.

Until everything else in life became secondary to my book, I couldn’t appropriately focus my thoughts.

Until I could focus my mind, I couldn’t envision how to achieve that first draft.

Today, I can trust in the process.  Just write every day.

 

Elaborating on yesterday’s post.

While I retain the ability to think about my story, during this latest episode of symptoms, the willingness to write is diminished.

I can think about my story. I can have new insights. But it is still a challenge, in this state, to find the energy to develop the narrative.

That’s what I’m trying to overcome, right now. That is why I’m posting these brief thoughts.

Traction overcomes inertia.

Now, this is progress!

After I woke, I napped for three hours on the couch.  I am in that exhaustive phase, where pain is something in which I am immersed.

But, I vaporized some Blue Dream.  And, with it, and the extra sleep, I am alright.

There is something noteworthy in this experience.  Although I am dealing with the pain and the fatigue, I haven’t lost sight of my narrative.  This is my first experience of being knocked back, by my symptoms, but not out.  In the past, this is where I would have forgotten everything I was thinking.  In the past, my remaining strength would have bounced me between the couch, and my bed.

Today is different.  Today, I can still think about my book in a way that moves it forward.

I see this as behavioral evidence of brain re-wiring.  I started this book during the last few months of my employment.  And, I have been consciously developing a voice and a narrative during this last year.  My worst symptoms always seemed to make my creative work vanish.  Mentally, it would take days, or weeks, to get the creativity back, and more effort to re-develop the narrative, in my mind.

This is the first time I have experienced these symptoms and retained my creative faculties.

Shh. Shh. Writer at work.

The blog has not gone.

Quiet.  Writer.  Preoccupied.

My creative periods come in spurts, between bouts of symptoms.

My book is my focus.  I am writing my calling card.

In this moment, between symptoms, I can be intensely productive.

I am on disability.  But, I no longer believe my condition should hold me back.

My book, if she sells, will be evidence I can earn my own keep.

Silence is the foundation on which all noise is built.

Sacred Space.

Within, I work.

Things my characters would say.

I am recovering from an intense period of brainstorming that was very beneficial to the evolution of my writing.  But I am back, to actively telling a story.

I finally understand the text I am writing, as the synthesis of all the possibilities I wined and dined in my mind.  Is it fiction?  Check.  Is it memoir? Fuzzy check.

At one point, I thought I was exploring a new space called Fantasy Memoir.  I don’t know if there is such a thing.  There probably is, because when I think I have a good idea, if I look hard enough I will find others preceded me in that particular line of imagination.

But, I have also explored different options to speak my thoughts as non-fiction.  That, though, would require something different than what my spirit wants to say.  My spirit wants a Meta-Myth.

I have found that my spirit, when I judge that it is grounded in appropriate aspirations, typically identifies fruitful avenues.  And, my spirit is telling me to write a myth about myth.

This evening, I once again sat down to work on my manuscript.  And, I wrote a bunch of stuff that doesn’t belong in that piece.  But, it belongs in the story.  So, I have within my Scrivener project, folders for what different characters might say.  And, I am further breaking it down by having individual pages of possible statements and thoughts for each main character at the beginning of the story, the middle, and the end.

My writing style is haphazard, in the sense that I follow inspiration where it takes me.  To hell with the narrative, when great ideas come for individual moments.  So, I write them where I am, which is my draft.  And then, I have to pull them back out.  I just read what I wrote this evening.  It’s all great.  But, none of it seems to go together.

Tomorrow, I will re-organize today’s writing, as a warm-up activity, after my journaling, but before my story-telling.  I approach my writing as a potter explores hand-built pieces.  I am developing a narrative for all of the individual inspirations, that provide context for a truth I seek to convey.

 

A rare comment about sports.

I don’t normally want to engage in sports talk on this blog.  But, I will make an exception here.  This relates to my book, at an oblique angle.

I will share these thoughts.

— — —

This evening, the NBA held its annual draft lottery.

There are a lot of rumors that the NBA draft is fixed, through the lottery system they put in place.  Ostensibly, to deter teams who need good players, from intentionally tanking their season.

The way the lottery works is that all the bad teams are given ping-pong balls, based on standings.  The worst teams have the most balls.  But even a team that finished ahead, in the standings, has a shot at the number one pick.

Today, Cleveland got the first pick for the third time in four years.  I am now convinced the NBA manipulates the lottery to create story-lines for their league.  Three times in four years?  C’mon!

I pay attention to this, not because I am a fan of the NBA, but because I am from Cleveland.  I keep up with my home town.

What the NBA is doing is intentional.  They are competing with the NFL to be the first league to bring a championship to a city that last won something over fifty years ago.  They smell pent-up opportunity to dunk on the NFL.

Earlier this month, the NFL held its draft.  The football Browns drafted Johnny ‘Football’ Manziel, the most exciting player available.  Not necessarily the best one.  But, he did promise to pour his heart out for the town that just adopted him, to bring them a Super Bowl victory. Johnny Football has the it-factor to be a public figure, long after he retires.  And, I am not suggesting that the NFL draft is fixed.  Just the NBA.

But, the competing story-line, in the NBA, is Lebron ‘The King’ James.  He was a phenom a decade ago, set to go pro, right out of high school.  He was the biggest story of that draft, too.  A kid, ready to go number one, over all the guys from college, because his combination, of skill, size, and athleticism, was so freakish.  Guess what.  That year, Cleveland picked number one, too!

But, Lebron left for Miami because, through free agency, he had the chance to assemble a supporting cast with two of his best basketball buddies, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh.  Two other freakishly good players.  He left Cleveland, because, as a perennial loser, the basketball Caveliers were having trouble creating a supporting cast around their star.  In spite of that, Lebron still took the Cavs to the NBA Finals in 2007.  Since then, he has won two championships.  This year could be his third.  And, guess what.

The story gets better.  He’s a hometown kid, from Akron, Ohio.

Well, Lebron is set to become a free agent, this season, or next.  There are some restrictions on how this plays out, within his current contract with the Miami Heat.  And, one of the story-lines, in sports talk, is whether Lebron will return to Cleveland, on his white horse, to bring the championship he promised his home town, before heading south.

Don’t tell me Cleveland’s winning the lottery three times, in the four years since he left home, are just a coincidence.  This is the NBA, manipulating their product.  They’re allowed.  Legally, they are set up as an entertainment company, not sports.  The draft is fake, just like Holleywood.

Go Browns!

My first trip here, in my wheelchair.

I feel like hell today.  But, this is why I have this chair.  I can still do something.

I ran into my neighbor, and her daughter, in the driveway.  They were happy for me.  Then, at McClintock, I caught the bus to Southern.  Forcing myself to go beyond self-consciousness.  My first surprise was learning that the bus is not free to wheelchairs.  I thought it was.  My bad.

And now, here I am.  First time, in my favorite coffee shop.

In my wheelchair.

I received it yesterday afternoon.  In my driveway.  Running, again, into my neighbors.  I was very grateful, but I felt guilty.  I felt well enough, in yesterday’s hot afternoon, to question whether the chair was a necessity.

But, after dark, with a strong, spring, wind blowing, I took it for a spin to the corner store, for a bag of chips.  Just to have something to do on a dark and mysterious evening.

And yes.  I was high.

I caused a bit of a headache for the store owner, by trying to breach the front door from my seat.  It took a minute of struggle, before he came to my aid.  He apologized, profusely.  But, I insisted I needed to learn how to do these things.  And then.

I got stuck.  I made it through the door, and down the first tiny aisle, brushing some few snacks to the floor.  And, I turned the corner, to find myself.

Cornered.  No path, back to the counter, except from where I came.  I had to back up, because he had crowded the floor so tight with merchandise.  But first.

I grabbed a bag of Lay’s.  Then, the owner spent a couple, more minutes, backing me with hand signs and instructions.  Pronounced, Bengali.

I was embarrassed, because I could have used my cane and my car, if I really wanted those chips.  Instead, we enjoyed our own private circus, because I was curious to do this, once the day had cooled.

I hope he enjoyed it.  I thought it was fun, except for putting him out.

But, by the time I returned to the garage, and plugged it in, I had decided that, I only made the trip because I had the chair.  Otherwise, I did feel crappy enough that, before yesterday, without it.  I would have rationalized.

I wasn’t very hungry for chips.  And here I am, this evening, in my favorite coffee shop, writing.  This definitely would not have happened, feeling like this, before yesterday.

This is wonderful.  I am beyond self-conscious.  I am happy.