i have nothing to say. really, i'm serious about this.
my mind is a blank slate waiting for the chalk of time to scratch across its surface. the whole idea of putting things into words right now is painful, this blank space is making all thoughts in my head turn bright white and nothing cohesive or comprehensive appears before my eyes ... and, yet, here i sit, still and waiting for something to spurt forth onto this blank page because when i started this blog i told myself i'd post something every other day, and then it became every two days, and now it seems closer to once a week, but still i sit and wait for something more than what this is ...
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
spring flames
all the trees
are tipped with red
like flame
spouting forth
the fire of life
after the quiet
of winter
has come and gone
the blossoms burning
bright and full
in the early
spring morning
rays of the sun
Saturday, April 10, 2010
2am
i want to know what it is about 2am that has me wide awake and ready to write, or sometimes with a desire to read. there must be something biological, or chemical, or biochemical, that is unique to the hours of 2am to 4am which make my body awaken from sleep and decide to have a spurt of creative genius.
once my mother told me, even as a baby, i used to wake up at this hour and her reasoning was because this was often the time my father came home. i was never entirely convinced by this reasoning, but lacking any other explanation it seemed to fit and gave me an answer to my question. when i moved into my father's house it did appear that he and i shared this trait, but he was no longer coming home at 2am, so my mother's logic was tossed aside. since, at the time, my mother and i were barely speaking to each other i was all too ready to find fault in her words.
as time went on i began to cherish these moments of wakefulness. the house was so quiet and still enough that you could hear the rise and fall of everyone's breath as they slept, as well as the peepers singing within the pond across the street, and i knew there wouldn't be a chance that someone would knock on my door. this time became my solace, this time was my own, except on those occasions when my dad would see my light on and tell me to go to sleep. i always thought this was a bit ironic since he would then go downstairs, turn on a light and sit in the living room to read for an hour or two himself, but i never asked about it since my life was so strange at that pint anyway, one more oddity was just accepted.
when i was in college i'd frequently stay awake until 2am and then crash for a few hours before going to an 8am class. at one point i had this notion of being on the crew team, but my nights of wakefulness were not conducive to 6am practices. it was only after graduating from college that i began to realize how inhibiting this quirk of dna could be, especially when i had to get up and go to work the next morning. a stop at dunkin' donuts became a necessity and once we moved to amherst my caffeine addiction really took hold and i began to frequent the only cafe that was willing to make an iced cafe vanilla without using the sickly sweet vanilla syrup, give me the powder! when my employment opportunities turned into dire straits my addiction to cafe vanillas was intense. no longer were these relugated to my morning routines, but one could find me with a steaming cup of vanilla caffeinated goodness at almost any hour of the day or night.
it wasn't until i began working at bread & circus that the possibility of a condition was realized. there were so many possibilities! hormonal imbalance, adrenal fatigue, hypoglycemia, hyperglycemia, stress, anxiety ... one by one these notions were eliminated and eventually i went back to enjoying these times of quiet solitude.
when my children were young these nightly sojourns were few and far between since most days and evenings were spent in two hour bits of sleep, moments of early morning energy became a thought of the past. as soon as these moments returned i knew my children were growing up, as well as realizing how much i missed this time. truly there is no other moment in time that is like 2am!
once my mother told me, even as a baby, i used to wake up at this hour and her reasoning was because this was often the time my father came home. i was never entirely convinced by this reasoning, but lacking any other explanation it seemed to fit and gave me an answer to my question. when i moved into my father's house it did appear that he and i shared this trait, but he was no longer coming home at 2am, so my mother's logic was tossed aside. since, at the time, my mother and i were barely speaking to each other i was all too ready to find fault in her words.
as time went on i began to cherish these moments of wakefulness. the house was so quiet and still enough that you could hear the rise and fall of everyone's breath as they slept, as well as the peepers singing within the pond across the street, and i knew there wouldn't be a chance that someone would knock on my door. this time became my solace, this time was my own, except on those occasions when my dad would see my light on and tell me to go to sleep. i always thought this was a bit ironic since he would then go downstairs, turn on a light and sit in the living room to read for an hour or two himself, but i never asked about it since my life was so strange at that pint anyway, one more oddity was just accepted.
when i was in college i'd frequently stay awake until 2am and then crash for a few hours before going to an 8am class. at one point i had this notion of being on the crew team, but my nights of wakefulness were not conducive to 6am practices. it was only after graduating from college that i began to realize how inhibiting this quirk of dna could be, especially when i had to get up and go to work the next morning. a stop at dunkin' donuts became a necessity and once we moved to amherst my caffeine addiction really took hold and i began to frequent the only cafe that was willing to make an iced cafe vanilla without using the sickly sweet vanilla syrup, give me the powder! when my employment opportunities turned into dire straits my addiction to cafe vanillas was intense. no longer were these relugated to my morning routines, but one could find me with a steaming cup of vanilla caffeinated goodness at almost any hour of the day or night.
it wasn't until i began working at bread & circus that the possibility of a condition was realized. there were so many possibilities! hormonal imbalance, adrenal fatigue, hypoglycemia, hyperglycemia, stress, anxiety ... one by one these notions were eliminated and eventually i went back to enjoying these times of quiet solitude.
when my children were young these nightly sojourns were few and far between since most days and evenings were spent in two hour bits of sleep, moments of early morning energy became a thought of the past. as soon as these moments returned i knew my children were growing up, as well as realizing how much i missed this time. truly there is no other moment in time that is like 2am!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
inspiration within a moment's notice
Divine inspiration can happen on a moments notice. It does not adhere to linear time. One second your mind is contemplating the oblivion of sleep and the next you find yourself basking in the cold light of the moon as the muse stands beside you, patient at first, waiting for you to notice her and then that’s when she gives you a push, it is a niggling thought, a mere hint of suggestion and then suddenly, almost without any warning at all you find yourself within that realm of creative passage. Your perception of time becomes lost, your world changes within the blink of an eye and you now see clearly, the path that lies before you.
When walking down the street, seeing people cross my path, my mind creates mini-stories about them. That one will meet the man of her dreams only to find out he’s her fourth cousin twice removed on her father’s side, indeed a long lost relative due to the war of 1812, and now that they’ve found each other and have been welcomed into the homes of each other’s families, if truth be known it is essentially back into the family, no one is willing to let him go, so their related? Isn’t everybody? And the details of the connections are lost once again. Another one finds solace in S&M by anonymous ads placed in the Backroom section of the Advocate, she even has a fake apartment rented just of those occasions. By day she’s the typical-looking sorority girl, tight pants, big boots, fake-fur-lined-hooded jacket, with a face as sweet as can be and diminutive to everyone she meets, many think of her as almost child-like in appearance and demeanor. By night, she’s the one in control and any deviation from that is not tolerated. Another one gets outrageously drunk at any and all parties, sometime roving from one to the next until she can get into bed with someone, anyone, multiples, whatever. Precautions, protections are all secondary. And the oddity of this is that she never gets into trouble. she doesn’t get any strange venereal disease and remains childless. After she graduates from college, with a business degree, she finds a job and when out on a Friday night, after she comes out of the bar alone, she is raped. She does get pregnant then and I can’t decide if she has an abortion, or if she decides to have a baby born by rape. I also can’t decide if she knew the guy, or if she gets a disease as well, or maybe instead of getting pregnant she gets a disease?
Usually my stories are about women. The men’s stories tend to be simpler: That one driving the “I-have-a-small-penis-but-every-chick-wants-to-fuck-me” bright red sports car with the gigantic spoiler on the back, wearing his baseball cap on sideways and backwards, dark sunglasses on eventhough there’s no sun to be seen, with his radio blasting some rap song that is so outrageously loud all you can tell is that it has a beat you could dance to, you know the guy I'm talking about. The guy dies in a horrible car crash after going to a frat party on his birthday. That one nails anything with great legs, another one flirts outrageously with any girl, but secretly wants to be with a guy. I don’t know if this guy actually has sex, but definitely the flirting, and more than a few hot and heavy make-out sessions in public. That one likes “showers” from women before he can reach climax, but he adamantly refuses to reciprocate the action, and has refused any further contact with those women who want equal treatment. Another one will only have sex in his car.
These aren’t great stories, perhaps a few could be embellished and made into a truer picture, but there is no drive towards elaborating, these are just random thoughts that pass through my mind as I walk down the street, or sit in a café, or wait for my laundry to dry. It’s only recently that I realized this is not an erroneous act, or a psychological disorder. This is what a writer does. This is the way a writer’s mind works. Everything is put into words, words become phrases, phrases become poetry or prose, and if those phrases become large enough they then become a story, all running through my mind until I finally put pen to paper and let it all pour out onto a blank page, filling it up like so much spilled blood and once it’s all out, when my mind is satisfied with the havoc I’ve created across the page, only then can I rest and my body collapses from lack of food and sleep awaits me until the muse awakens me once again.
When walking down the street, seeing people cross my path, my mind creates mini-stories about them. That one will meet the man of her dreams only to find out he’s her fourth cousin twice removed on her father’s side, indeed a long lost relative due to the war of 1812, and now that they’ve found each other and have been welcomed into the homes of each other’s families, if truth be known it is essentially back into the family, no one is willing to let him go, so their related? Isn’t everybody? And the details of the connections are lost once again. Another one finds solace in S&M by anonymous ads placed in the Backroom section of the Advocate, she even has a fake apartment rented just of those occasions. By day she’s the typical-looking sorority girl, tight pants, big boots, fake-fur-lined-hooded jacket, with a face as sweet as can be and diminutive to everyone she meets, many think of her as almost child-like in appearance and demeanor. By night, she’s the one in control and any deviation from that is not tolerated. Another one gets outrageously drunk at any and all parties, sometime roving from one to the next until she can get into bed with someone, anyone, multiples, whatever. Precautions, protections are all secondary. And the oddity of this is that she never gets into trouble. she doesn’t get any strange venereal disease and remains childless. After she graduates from college, with a business degree, she finds a job and when out on a Friday night, after she comes out of the bar alone, she is raped. She does get pregnant then and I can’t decide if she has an abortion, or if she decides to have a baby born by rape. I also can’t decide if she knew the guy, or if she gets a disease as well, or maybe instead of getting pregnant she gets a disease?
Usually my stories are about women. The men’s stories tend to be simpler: That one driving the “I-have-a-small-penis-but-every-chick-wants-to-fuck-me” bright red sports car with the gigantic spoiler on the back, wearing his baseball cap on sideways and backwards, dark sunglasses on eventhough there’s no sun to be seen, with his radio blasting some rap song that is so outrageously loud all you can tell is that it has a beat you could dance to, you know the guy I'm talking about. The guy dies in a horrible car crash after going to a frat party on his birthday. That one nails anything with great legs, another one flirts outrageously with any girl, but secretly wants to be with a guy. I don’t know if this guy actually has sex, but definitely the flirting, and more than a few hot and heavy make-out sessions in public. That one likes “showers” from women before he can reach climax, but he adamantly refuses to reciprocate the action, and has refused any further contact with those women who want equal treatment. Another one will only have sex in his car.
These aren’t great stories, perhaps a few could be embellished and made into a truer picture, but there is no drive towards elaborating, these are just random thoughts that pass through my mind as I walk down the street, or sit in a café, or wait for my laundry to dry. It’s only recently that I realized this is not an erroneous act, or a psychological disorder. This is what a writer does. This is the way a writer’s mind works. Everything is put into words, words become phrases, phrases become poetry or prose, and if those phrases become large enough they then become a story, all running through my mind until I finally put pen to paper and let it all pour out onto a blank page, filling it up like so much spilled blood and once it’s all out, when my mind is satisfied with the havoc I’ve created across the page, only then can I rest and my body collapses from lack of food and sleep awaits me until the muse awakens me once again.
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