Tag Archives: journal

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.

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.

 

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.

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.

What comes first?

In bycicle?
The ‘i’ or the ‘y’?
It must be the ‘i’.
Bicycle.
That looks better. I just need to remember.
It’s the same ‘b-i’ as bi-annual, or bi-sexual, or bi-headed. Because there are two wheels.
Why do I mess it up so consistently?
I blame my great-grandfather. My mom’s, dad’s, dad.
He changed Bykowski to Byke. My mother’s maiden name.
A family name. Damn it!
I know how to spell the family name.
But every time I try to spell ‘bicycle’, my brain inserts the ‘y’ before the ‘i’.
Will I ever get it right without thinking about it?