Being a writer can be dangerous business; maybe not in the physical sense, but more because it effects the psyche. Since childhood I've often found myself drifting off to other places in my mind. But if I drift too far reality doesn't seem real, and it becomes secondary to the world that I've created. I can fade into myself so much that I become evanescent to the real world. When this happens I can't relate to the rest of the world or the world can't relate to me. (Sometimes both) The worlds that I create in my mind are like waking dreams that I live through; they are the transcending gardens of dreamers and only dreamers know how to find them. What's worse than fading inside of myself is probably walking through a normal life half-sleep and half-waking in the world created in the mind. What does this have to do with writing? Well, I write so I can live in the ordinary world, so I can put my waking dreams away like a child does her toys. So why is it dangerous? Well, by writing you explore both the light and shadow of the human spirit. In doing so you look into the darkness of yourself, sometimes the appearance of the void and sometimes I become isolated from what's outside of my mind. When I'm cut off from the people I care about...it's like I'm locked inside a large room and can't get out no matter how bruised my fists become when I bang on the door, or how my nails tear when I try to scale the walls and reach the window. So, I am alone in a room that I can't get out of the room was fun when I wanted to play. But I am thankful for the escape from both reality and the other world. Thank God for both.
According to blogthings.com my personality is 3 parts whimsy, 2 parts nonconformity and 1 part devilry. Add a splash of friendship and serve it over ice. I find that VERY funny. Anyway once again I am tired and I'll leave you with a poem that has touched me... ::sniff:: (I must appologize for not leaving you with a real post but I figured that this was better than no post at all so...)
Ahem:
Tangier
There's no salvation in elsewhere;
forget the horizon, the seductive sky.
If nothing's here, nothing's there.
I know. Once I escaped to Tangier,
took the same face, the same lie.
There's no salvation in elsewhere
when elsewhere has empty rooms, mirrors.
Everywhere: the captial I.
If nothing's here, nothing's there
unless, of course, your motive's secure;
not therapy, but joy
salvation an idea left behind, elsewhere,
like overweight baggage or yesteryear.
The fundamental things apply.
If nothing's here, nothing's there--
I brought with me my own imperfect air.
The streets were noise. The heart dry.
There was no salvation in elsewhere.
I came with nothing, found nothing there.
--- Steven Dunn
Dr. Seuss put it this way: No matter where you go there you are.
Bye now.
I don't think I can write a very long post right now....
Instead I'll leave you with a haiku and maybe three from me it depends on how I feel...
the piercing cold--
in our bedroom stepping
on my dead wife's comb
Buson Yosa
And from yours truely:
Blooming azeleas
Shudder in flurries of snow
Waiting for sunlight
Fleeing winter chill
Hollow red butterflies sail
Down the gravel path
Purple flowers dry
Pressed between slender leaves
Of black and white
I know it was short. No whining. I'll be back soon... I hope.
