How about a double header today. At least a double header. I will only speak for myself here. For me, NOT writing becomes a malady. A disease. Actually, more appropriately spelled and emphasized as a “dis-ease.” This comes with much introspection and observation of life.
I wrote the sentence “astonishing how quickly life passes” from a person who posted online about the passing of Neil Armstrong. That statement is nothing new. Many have said it, and many will continue, including me.
The astonishing rate of the passage of life lives in me as a writer. Always has. In fact, part of the core of my inspiration and motivation to write finds its source in this fact. We don’t live forever. Temporal is such a devastating but perfect word.
I often struggle with life. I tussle with it. I wrestle with it. I resign myself to it. I rage against it. I caress it. I cherish it. I love it. I hate it. I find life unequivocally fascinating and enticing. I find life exhausting and depressing. I find life in every emotional aspect I can.
Then I write it. I write life. Good. Bad. Ugly. Sublime. Beautiful. Toughing. Real.
Then I don’t.
That’s my issue. My problem. My solution. My damnation. My salvation. I have a lover, or should I say, in Lennonesque fashion, my lover has me. First up on the double header:
My Lover
I need your voice, your warm hello
Your lovely smile that warms my soul
I need your time and special touch
Your soft embrace that’s never enough
I crave your passion, your intensity, your care
Your fountain heart, your billowed hair
I crave your presence, your breath, your thought
Your inspiration that’s never bought
I’m a junkie whose life rests in your arms
Your tendril fingers lead mine to charm
I’m a junkie whose realization came clear
Your mistral wind draws muses near
I’m lost without my lady’s attention
Your willowed breezes carry sweet intention
I’m lost without this lover’s swirl
You’re my indiscretion, writing, you’re my girl.
When I abandon writing for the “work” I must do, or even the day I must live, a dissonance forms within me. A need. A desire. A passion. I hollow spot that desperately needs filled. A flame that must burn. A tear that must fall. A wan smile that must creep to my lips. A laughter required to burst upon this world. A broken heart that must incinerate into phoenix ashes only to be reborn again.
Then there’s the “real” world. That hateful place where passion and creativity are “nice” but unimportant to the money-driven. Cast aside as weak and “hobbyistic”, my real world only lends lip service to my dreams. I must fight for my dreams and aspirations.
That’s a tough order when these dreams and aspirations are without form and void. Isn’t that the ultimate description of creativity? Without form and void? Something coming from nothing? Yet the “real” world demands explanation. Cross examination. Judgement of worthiness.
If you cannot live and make money in the “real” world, your worth is greatly diminished. Oh yes, that is until you actually come across with something tangible. Potentially salable. Consumable.
I’ve found the elusive kindred spirit to be a great desire. Someone who understands in this day of greed and avarice and power and external pleasure, that life truly exists on a breeze. Whether the day be nuclear hot or Neptunian cold, life wends its way through our temporal existence a fleeting, invisible wake that only can be seen in its after-effects.
A more consumable, tangible, and “reality” driven piece of writing that temporarily bridges the gap between the two worlds gets delivered something like this:
Her Digital Window
That slightly worn path ‘neath her digital window
Entertains warm, loving eyes that soar in the night.
Head full of rain, sorrow laden heart, yet
Silent melodies drift up to her in word caresses.
Dreams waft through breezes leagues from her shore
Curling and lazy and impassioned and more
Hopes cling through wreckage and pain and loneliness
All to fill her path with the aroma of love.
Could days so frantic, so full, so intense
Leave room for the night with its melancholy romance?
There are times when two walk this world together
With all the stars cheering their way.
Will she look out along the path ‘neath her window,
Grin and welcome a song in the night?
Stars then, in all their glorious symphony
Shall pale behind the twinkle in her eye.
Time steals what moments we may share.
Days too often rule like a heartless taskmaster.
Her slightly worn path ‘neath her digital window
Grows roses who strive to reach the light of her smile.
Why would I say this is more “consumable?” Simply because there are those who waffle between the “real” world and the emotional world. In fact, most of us must do this. We must survive and no one will feed us and take care of us for simply being in touch with emotion and writing about it.
The same is true of all artists. We all must support ourselves in order to pursue the creativity that lives within. So when writing resonates with the broader, more money driven populace, I say it becomes more consumable. The writing then “justifies” our existence to others.
I’ve found I am much too concerned about this “justification.” I’m too concerned with what others think, when I literally cannot know what they think. This may be part and parcel of what it is to allow your creativity to be exposed to the world. I know I struggle to find that kindred spirit who understands, who I can turn to at any time and get empathy and a knowing nod.
On this rainy, double header day in central Florida, my musings exposed for what they’re worth. To me, these musings in print keep me sane, fulfilled, and justified. I can only speak for myself.
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Things Gone, What Endures…?
