Writing Practice – 3/27/2018

(Today’ s writing practice session did not begin with a prompt. I simply started to write.)

To start a writing practice session, I always do two things, though not always in the same order. I review the Rules for Writing Practice – keep your hand moving, don’t think, don’t get logical, lose control, go for the jugular. And I imagine myself inside my own brain, a flat bottom and a half-oblong dome above me, grey, and I have a paint roller in my hand. I dip it into a bucket of white paint and use that to cover the inside of my a brain with whiteness, blankness, cleanness, renewal, readiness for the experience of writing. Once all of the surface has been covered, strip, strip, along the bottom – working my way from the middle, next, next, next, out to the edge, along a Mohawk strip on the top, next, next, clear around to the curve to the edge, when it meets the floor, painting, covering, all in white a canvas, in preparation.

Then I am ready to write. To burn through to first thoughts. To offer myself to my Muse, wherever he is that day, if He will choose to show up or not, if he will deign to stoop down and place a soft, reassuring touch on my shoulder, if he will whisper, warm, tickling breath in my ear, “Yes, go, get that, follow that thought, chase it, don’t let it escape, pursue, continue, persist, never, ever, ever let go, find it, fight it, kill it, master it, turn it, transform it, tame it, succumb it to your power, to your authority, to your will, do not relent, do not release, do not avoid when the subject turns delicate, or embarrassing, or insecure, for you are to know that you are the one in control, you are the one from whom all these blessings flow, you are the god in this world, this world you have created, this universe at the tip of your pen, you are the Alpha and the Omega, what you bring about here shall live in mythology and archaeology and your subjects’ anthropologies for as long as they exist, for you are a deity far above all others, you have the power to build up, to tear down, to keep, to preserve, to destroy, to eliminate, to mould and fashion and to remake and to evolve, you are the thing in this world that all other things are subject to, and so therefore with such great authority comes great responsibility, an awareness of self, an introspection of your power, your ability, your authority, and your standing in this world, that world, that experience, you have power and authority, yes, so choose wisely, choose judiciously, make with circumspection and introspection and valor and virtue, for what you make, what you destroy, what you build and what you tear down become your legacy, your history, to the universe above you, the god who sits judging you for your godhood shall weigh your actions, your perseverance, your perversity or magnanimity and he, she it, they too shall judge, with the same measure as which you used to judge, so take care, be wise, be well, and do good work.”

Writing Practice – 3/20/18 – Bad News

Write about bad news…

It’s worse when the delivery is poor, too. It’s easy to hear when it comes from someone who loves you, who cares about you, who will be there to hold you after the revelations sink in and your heart has disintegrated into the void in your chest at the announcement. Because then you have someone to be there while you stumble through the next few moments, the next days, as you struggle to understand, to experience; as you fight to perform the monumental task of keeping on, keeping going, when all you want to do in the face of such insurmountable odds is to walk away.

Bad news is not the opposite of good news. Good news makes you happy. It’s on a spectrum, an axis, a dimension. Sad on one end, happy on the other. So good news drives you along the happy-sad line from less happy to more happy. It’s maybe linear, maybe exponential, maybe logarithmic, maybe discontinuous. But at least it’s on that path, that pattern, a graphable subset of the whole.

Bad news, though, that shit is a different breed. It doesn’t do the opposite as good news. It doesn’t drive us down that axis, doesn’t make us sad, doesn’t make us less happy. Bad news is an altogether different bitch.

Bad news incites feelings of revolution, of betrayal, of hatred, of incompetence. It is not on the happy/sad spectrum – it is not on any axis at all.

Not perpendicular – not even a dimension at all. Bad news brings feelings completely uncorrelated to the news itself. It brings inspires installs turbulence within the spirit.

It enlightens destructive tendencies, destruction to self, destruction to environment, destruction to imagination, destruction to hope. Bad news irradiates the possibilities of future happiness with ultraviolet, emotion-destroying, logically-consistent-and-yet-absolutely-incomprehensible emotionless arguments.

Bad news fucks you up. And not in ways that can be protected against. There is no “bad news life preserver.” No “this is gonna fuck up your head, so grab an emotional prophylactic” condom. It is not random, not linear, not predictable, and yet also not incomprehensible.

Bad news is bad – not for the outcome, but for the period in between, that space, that time, those days or weeks or months from the time when you first hear it and the last acts are complete. “Oh, he’ll die in 2 months.” Well, then, my life is a shitshow for 2 months and for twenty years after, as the echoes of that bad news reverberate through the empty chambers of my heart forever.

Bad news. It’s bad news, man. It’s the torture that just keeps giving, long after it should have stopped, long after the events unfolded. Long after the “healing” is done. Long after the heart has moved along, the society has moved along, long after your counselor says “I think you’re good here,” long after the surface scars have healed. Bad news is a poison waiting, slowly working, beneath the surface, eating out the insides in a perpetual, relentless destruction of the body from the soul outward.

Love is (4 of 10)

Love is the separation of duty from voluntary action. Love is choice. Love is looking at another and saying “I choose you.” Not just “I do this because I must” or “Because I cannot see any other way to live my life right now.” Love is “I make time for you.” Love is “I give up for you.” Love is sacrifice. Love is voluntarism in action. Love is discipline, and care and concern. Love is truth and justice at once. Love is to see the good and seek out the bad. To observe, not ignore. not to justify, either, those things which are wrong – but to admit the wrongness – to realize the wrongness – to acknowledge the deficiency and to wait for it. Love is to send one’s heart into the abyss, not knowing whether it will return, but whether or not it does is not the issue. The issue is the sending out – the excessing – the exuding – the extruding – of the things which once held us back and yet now free us to greater exploration of self.

Love is inspiration. Love is adoration. Love is trepidation and apprehension. Love is to hope and fear; to hope for good, to fear that same good. For how unlikely is it that both the good and the bad do not come together? For so much good that there is, must not there also be bad, poor, miscontent, malcontent, to balance it out?

Love is balance. Love is peace. Love is trust and it is distrust and it is jealousy and it is protection and it is determination and it is absolution of the wrongs and penance for the sights. Love is trust; love is jealously. Love is to see your lover in the arms of another and want to end your own life at the thought of missing out on that touch. Love is determination. Perspiration. Inspiration and to believe that there will be better to come, because of love, despite love, in response to love, as a result of love. As a result of fear. As a result of impropriety and reconciliation, as a result of recognition and reparations.

Love is there. It is here. It fills and drains. It empties itself of all thought. It consumes, it subsumes, it burdens and relieves from all burden. Love is these things and more. And nothing at all. Love shall keep us alive. And it shall kill us – take us – eliminate us – remove us – it makes us. Love is degenerative, destructive. Supportive and stringent and supplicant. Love is the way we relate to the non-animals, the un-beasts of this world. The lower forms – the ox and ass and centipede and lichen – they react to the world. Stimulus – response. Action – reaction. They are not loving creatures. They cannot determine that separation between must and can. I can do this for you. I must do that for some other reason. Only one is love. The other may be devotion. It may be duty. It may be appreciation. But it is not love. Love is a choice – an all-encompassing, an enforcing, an engaging, an enraging choice. Love is a choice, and one which we will do well not to take lightly. For those who disregard love’s strength find themselves burdened – struck down – incapacitated under the weight. The weight of a hundred elephants standing end to end, pressing down on your chest. Suffocating, sterilizing, purifying. Beware – beware of love – give it not lightly. Receive it not lightly. Do both at your own peril.

Love Is (1 of 10)

A while ago she asked me what love means to me. I have done some free writing on that topic. 10 sessions on that, to be frank. I’d like to share them.
Love is…

Love is unreal. It defies nature and nature’s god. It is an emotion and a state of being and a mountaintop of hope. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things? No. That is devotion, which is not love. devotion is single-minded. Devotion is “yes Ma’am” and “no Sir” and “right away boss.” That is not love.

Love is “I will, because you ask.” Love is “I will not, even though you beg.” Love is light in the brightest day. Light in the night is easy. it doesn’t mean anything. It has no setting up that tells it how to live, how to be. How to breathe. But light in the day, when it must be blinding, glaring, overwhelming just to be noticed, is love.

Love is patient and kind. Nope again. That is obedience. That is duty. Love is not to allow those under your care to have their innocence ripped away along with their hymens. Love is not to turn the other cheek – [illegible]. Oh, those may be love, but not love for another. No, that is love for the self, that is love to secure one’s place in the Heavens. That is, perhaps, a love of God, but it is not a love of another. Love for another is when you are willing to take the bad to get to the good. Nope. Love is when you demand the bad in order to balance out the impossibly good. Love is determined, love is not boastful or rude. Nope. Love makes the loudest screech the world knows. Love makes the world hear.

Love makes the world go round? Wrong again, boyo. Love is a fancy chemical by-product of an evolutionary process that has resulted in these meatbags being able to comprehend a higher order experience, something somehow greater than simply existence and replication and to identify that not only in oneself but in another, not only to recognize that in the other but inexplicably draw out words to describe it, words that cannot begin to contain it, this emotion, this experience, this chemical reaction that cascades from the [ilegible] to the hypothalamus across the limbic cortex into the frontal lobe and finally to the spleen or the liver or the gall bladder or something, some receptacle where the excess serotonin and dopamine and Igbo-whatever-it all cascades from the highest point and waterfalls down to those river depths triggering reactions all along the way. 

They are there and they are here, and we, we, inexplicably, understandably (because we learned over time) have need to explain the inner workings of the body, like we have a need to explain the outer workings of the cosmos) we lead them to think of this as something we have decided on, something we control, something we need and desire and this is because of when we [illegible] it all is nothing more than a chemical reaction designed, or rather, evolved, to help ensure the production of our DNA inside these meatbags.

Congratulations, Stephan. You just fucked up love. Way to go. Hope you’re happy with yourself. Well done, asshole.

Writing practice – 5/3/2017

Describe the dawn:

The iconic image is a quiet, peaceful awakening of the woods, of the animals, of the pink-orange-yellow streaks creeping quietly, serenely across the grey sky. The ideal is that dawn slowly slinks into the world, despite the phrase, the name, of “breaking.” But not today. instead, today dawn does not just break. It invades. It attacks. It imposes itself upon existence. It rips a gash through the silence of the night and renders the world into two, before and after its existence. Before, quiet, peace, tranquility as the animals retain their rest, as the flowers and the bees and the blossoms on the peach tree await the sprinkling of the dew to wet them with fairy-soft kisses. After, a cacophony of noise, of existence, as the flames of gold and firehot fingers of light burn their way across the morning sky. They flee the sun, screaming harbingers of the heat, the brilliant white light that comes with the sun. They flee its destructive power; they advance across the expanse of cloudless vision like frightened, terrified children fearing poltergeists inside an abandoned farmhouse. They light flees the sun. So, too, do the animals wake, not calmly and peacefully and serenely, but instead with emotions unfelt before, with desires for nothing more than self-preservation, a terror emanating from inside them at the preposterous proposition that this coming tsunami of light brings not peace but destruction, the sword, pain, torture, even death, for those who are not swift of paw enough to outrun its terrible reach. The squirrels, the raccoons, the chipmunks and deer, the bears and badgers feel this intensity, this fear, this longing, and they follow its path, follow the herds of their fellow beasts, follow or run ahead of the advancing, impending, looming uncertainty, undesirability, unknown imposing THING reaching for them out of the darkness, riding on the advancing waves of light, riding the path of destruction from the cold east to the colder west, dragging behind the dawn not truth and serenity, but heartache, pain, emptiness; a void that has no end; a need, a yearning that cannot be filled. A want, an emptiness, a thing which has no other complement to fill it, a feeling that there will, not only now, but never, never for all time, never while the sun burns and then burns out, never while the planets spin then slow down then stop, never while the galaxies drift closer together then further apart, succumbing to the heat death of the universe, the multiverse, the infinite res, never even then shall this missingness be considered filled, never shall there be completion, wholeness, perfection, again, and it is this intimidating, overwhelming, unrelenting gape that yawns in front of the eyes of such poor creatures, scaring, frightening, terrorizing them from stillness to action. it is this they flee, and for good reason, because when the Void catches them, as it inevitably will, when it reaches their back paw and then hips and then chest and then shoulders and then heads, it sucks them in, it pulls them closer and subsumed them into itself, unmaking them, unmaking them in its own image, unmaking themselves from thing into No-thing, and while being No-thing will not hurt, will not be anything at all, while no-thing-ness shall not really be anything, they still fear; they fear the unknown. They fear the change. They fear the void, and they flee, and thus they announce the Dawn.