Category Archives: journaling

Sorry to be so quiet.

I have been deeply working my book.  But, like my earthworm brethren, I do my best work under ground.

I am in a state of deep concentration, and I have been writing throughout the days.  The ideas start coming in late afternoon, and carry into the night.  I open my computer whenever thoughts present themselves.

Today, I am embarking on a new habit.  I am committed to breaking up the previous day’s writing, where appropriate, and putting the good stuff in folders I have created that outline my narrative.  (Scrivener is my writing application.  I love it.)

I realized that if I didn’t spend some time, each day, to consider my accumulated work, I will not be able to see the finish line for the trees.  On the way here, to my favorite coffee shop, in my wheelchair, I asked myself.

How much more work is involved?  I am not tired.  I am just trying to get a handle on this thing, and develop the large-view narratives within all my pieces.  Then, I can also begin writing towards the synthesis of the narratives.

I am hoping, by autumn, that the majority of the writing will be finished.  Then, I can turn my attention to the completed document, and begin filling in the cognitive blanks.  That’s how I see myself transitioning from lots of writing, to mostly editing.

— —

My sister sent me an email all the way from Australia, and shared a video she liked.

I liked it, too, and decided to participate in exposing a delightful, young artist through the Viral Net.

Kawehi.

 

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.

What’s up with my book?

This has been a great month of April.  My sister and eight-year-old nephew came.

To me, from Melbourne.  We saw.

The Canyon.  The museum.  And Wupatki.

They left east as the second week began.  To see.

 

Other places and faces.

A widely scattered, diverse family.

I love them dearly.

But, I was worn.

 

Then, ten hard days.  Like the first eight weeks of disability.

Too worn to stare beyond the walls.

But, ideas came.

 

Voice recognition, I am learning to love you!

And I now have folders, labeled for all my concepts.

Ideas filling them with story.

The narration of my ideas is now.

A slurpy concrete.

Setting, in mind.

I have waited for this day.

Earlier, I was thinking how sometimes my writing sparkles clear in sunlight, while others it is muddy, often shallow.  I am learning to use this cycle to advantage.

I write best when my symptoms are at bay.  And, I keep them at bay.

Brushing them back with cannabis.  But.

Things break down.  Symptoms intrude.

I chase them, increasing my dose.  Hoping.

They go away.

Eventually, they disappear, but only after I bottom out.

I typically rebound.  A floor higher than the basement.  I found myself, in.

My ceiling, lower than some past, previous floor.

Rebound is when marijuana can inhibit my writing.  After chasing symptoms with heavier doses, and diminishing effect, I need that break.

Today, I hadn’t used any since the day before yesterday.  It’s subconscious subtle.  I don’t even notice a decision to abstain.  I just notice that.

By evening.  I haven’t used any all day.  And, I ask.

Myself.  Can I sleep the night without?

If I think so, I know.  I am bouncing back.

But, I still can’t write.  I can’t think.

I sleep.  I do things.  I move around, caring for vegetables, and two cats.

My camera takes photographs.  I appreciate that.  I enjoy this beautiful world.

As pain creeps back into picture, the game begins.

How long can I wait, as worse it gets?

Today, this evening.  A Thin Mint, vaporized.

Finally.  Feeling good enough to write.

Yoda rough skis do

=== 12:13 a.m. (Thursday, the 17th) ===
Small couch, east.

I just came home from Yoda rough skis do, <== isn’t this fantastic? This is what Apple’s voice recognition software heard, when I spoke into my journal, “I just came home from Jodorowsky’s Dune.”

It was my second time.  The first, I felt a deep spiritual connection to this man, Alejandro Jodorowsky.  I had heard of his creation, long ago.

I went again.  This time, to focus on his words.  The first time, I felt a bit dazzled by his originality.  This evening, I was prepared for the surprises, so my attention could remain on his words and ideas.

I can’t recommend this film highly enough.  See it, and watch how an artist thinks.

Awkward

Out of my head.
Got it.
Down, in some physical form.
Memory, accessed externally.
Rather than.

Solely residing in my head.
For, only a moment.
Before gone. Write thoughts, to make them.
Real.

Unless written, they remain etherial.
Essential, and missing. Unable, too.

Make points. Make jokes. Make sense.

Speaking, more primitive.
Than writing.

Stumbling, over faulty recall.
That next word. Spoken tokens, embedded in grammar.
Queued up, within the mind. Around each thought. Then.

One wanders off.
Lost again.
In the dark unconscious.
Too shy to be said.