One of those days, where I've meditated almost without choice, pulled easily in, and where I keep trying to enter the external day. I am tired. Is it because I've only eaten fruit, cheese, antipasto, and toasted multi-grain walnut bread for the past few days, and my body needs meat even if I don't get around to cooking it more than once or twice a week; or is it financial, I expected to be working more this month than I have; or is it emotional, with some strange responses from women to my output that leaves a discomfort that requires rest to heal; or, as I reach down deeper, is it creative? Is my muse pulling me into somnambulance, the place from where I write, even though today is not a 'writing day.' As I wander about, intermittently laugh or argue about writing with my daughter, I have an odd sense of writing emerging. Why can't my life go on when this happens? I have so many things to do...
An image of a great frozen polar cap shifting, the voluminous depth of the mind working things out in its billions of neural connections, and when it's ready, a piece of writing breaking off like an ice flow, and floating into the ocean where it melts eventually into all the other words.
Is this a Zen of writing?
Do all of our words flow together when we've shut off our computers and closed our books? Into a great linguistic ocean sweeping the globe?
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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I enjoyed the image of the polar cap. The way creative work happens is completely mysterious and variable to me.
ReplyDeleteMB, it would be a nice opposite to the drought, heat and forest fires where you are! (Which is also an image of creativity :)
ReplyDeleteThe words are just the 'husks' of the moments when they were made.
ReplyDeleteDo the words all flow together?Sure. The word husks all flow together into a great cacaphony...maybe, sometimes, a euphony.
I like that, Chuck, "'husks' of the moments"... and how sometimes they do flow together into a euphony is amazing if you think about it. Thanks!
ReplyDelete