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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
=== 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.
I am.
Slow poke. No child prodigy.
Finally. Let go.
Around, About.
The age of thirty.
Fading. My thinking,
Changed.
From reality.
Through story.
Into illusion.
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.
She buzzes ears and rests on ankles.
Sitting. Wait. She again alights.
And fears not death, in her quest for blood.
I am in a writing world, largely motionless. No inspiration here. Instead, I have been occupying myself with little things.
Dishes, and floors and weeds.
My sister and nephew are coming on Friday. With a little daily work, the home can present well.
And, while I knock out each task, I re-arrange my thoughts.
Some more.
How to complete the book? What is stopping me, now?
These last few days, more than a week, I am outward looking. I have turned to re-arranging my physical world, and it’s a lesson on my latest state.
Every so often, two or three times per year, these last couple. My strength rebounds. And I tackle things I could only dream of, the week before.
In the yard, I am installing a garden, designed to feed me vegetables through summer. In Tempe, the challenge is the extreme heat, typically in the 117-119 Farenheits range, at peak. I am only planting warm-weather crops, with which I have enjoyed success in previous years.
Swiss chard is surprisingly stout under the summer sun. I have them, twice paired, with collard greens and hollyhocks, in one grouping.
In two others, I am planting okra, together with cantaloups, cucumbers and three squashes. Zucchini, acorn, and kabocha.
Since the vines typically wither by July on their own, they will hang out, this year, under a lady-finger shade.
I still intend to pick up a yam and a sweet potato from the grocery store. Cut some pieces, to sprout new vines, while eating the rest.
But, I’m unsure about something.
Is this latest bit of ambition temporary? Or, can I make it permanent? I decided last week to tackle the disorganization and dirt surrounding me. Get the dirt out of the house, and organize the it in the yard.
I broke it down to simple tasks, like watering, and digging. Watering is an easy, daily activity. Digging depends on energy, So I bounce between the couch and the garden, throughout the day.
Dig, then lay down. Then dig some more, followed by another rest.
Thank goodness, these past ten years, for all the done-digging. Keeping it loose and easy.
Well, the shovel-work and planting is now largely finished, until fall. Next, I can vacuum and sweep and mop. Tomorrow through Friday.
The strategy is working, but, will it remain stable when I go back to writing? Can I do all three, in some measure, each day? Can I write, and still find the mental energy to also take care of my surroundings?
Although I am dealing with muscles at low strength, this challenge seems more mental, than anything.
It should be doable.
The Atheist Who Believes in God 