This is your mind on ‘finishing a novel’.
o and om
heres a handmade :) mandala for you all. we actually drew this one all by ourselves. yayy.
a note to fellow artists,dreamers, creators: Remember: creative projects cannot be denied. if you feel one inside of you that desires to be made manifest go for it! embrace your gifts and ride the resulting wave that sharing them with the world brings. you’ll be wonderfully surprised in positive ways.
o and om
In the land of odyssians the odysseus cats did play. they swung through the trees, hanging from the prickly spike vines that grew abound. they gathered up monkey brain sized meat fruits at their hearts leisure with eager paws. they prayed to their invisible sky leaders with calls of “more better good” and “less ugh ugh”- all in the hopes of having less misery and more bounty. They were given enough by their gods good graces. enough was their content.
Yet one cat could not be content despite the enough; the monkey fruit meat was savory sweet as any sweet meet can be, plus the crystal water rains quenched all unmitigated thirsts with the occasional back scratch from a fellow cat far far down the precipice tree totem hit just the right places were not enough. so she went to the place at the worlds end- where haze of the volcanic ash infused spicy spiced rum was manufactured in big broiling mechanized plants long ashore. even this could not let her forget the lack abound. enough was not enough for this lone dreamer. her thoughts remained as she remained, in longing.
she longed for more. the gods (of course) told her “wait”.
wait? she thought – she’d heard it all depressingly before. wait for what? wait to wait? wait for waiting?
“everything and all things.” the gods portained. “wait”
“sigh” – she sighed. for who can battle this cosmic effect vehicle.
“but” she questioned. rightfully.
-this whole life seemed wait though, didnt it? and in the meanwhile and in the meanwhile again that followed forever in repetitum this life asks that you sacrifice yourself in incredible and uncomfortable ways. and sit back letting others decide those decisions best decided by yourself alone. and who’s to speak of our fair maiden destiny. especially when we are forced to not speak of it ourselves.
the cats in the trees did mew their misunderstandings…. and she ignored them. as was her singular duty.
-life asks that you do that which you forever are not wanting. in order to get those things that youve been wanting forever. a grand contradiction in ultimate absolute terms. what might this grand wheeled blue green space sphere telethon extract from you this day that you arent wanting to give? time. energy. devotion. faith. physicality. strength. independence. hope.
-o and om.
some how weve drifted into the land of the lonely. weve shed our hermits cloak and emerged from our below ground sanctuary only to find ourselves standing alone in a large empty field of endless grass. a setting sun lilts on the horizon. no funnel cloud as you see in the picture. just a perfect, windless calm. its beautiful. all of it. entirely achingly beautiful. but i find it hard to enjoy this scene alone. wouldnt it be great to have a fellow traveler to discuss the finer points of life with? none greets us.
weve shed our hermits cloak too early then. our timing, which is everything, has betrayed us. after all the screenplay isnt finished. my holy grail is in pieces- half ungathered. the other half held together by the weakest glue. any strong analysis/reading—-> implosion.
i falsely imagined that i would emerge from my cave, pull the hood off of my cloak and have the thick layer of dust that had gathered there billow down in delightful puffs of clouds about the rest of me. the low light of the waning afternoon paints my revival perfectly and at the same time blinds my eyes-unused to sunlight at any strength. id look around and lo and behold see another hermit-also newly emerged from his asceticism. wed make eye contact easily despite the vastness of that empty field. both of us would be ready to share the riches we had gleaned from the multitudes of esoteric knowledge we had shut ourselves away for the purpose of understanding.
i was mistaken. the field is empty except for me. i am alone. my brave actions unrewarded. sadness colors the air.
Before, our sole focus on work and the rewards a successful screenplay would bring for many years to come carried us beyond any need for human interaction. why have real conversation when you can imagine perfectly scripted dialogue? no unpleasant surprises. no unpredictability or chaos that being a human makes unavoidable. need an issue resolved? write it in. need to kill off someone. well….
ive dubbed this beautiful written realisty “the robinson crusoe effect”. perhaps robison crusoe reality is a better name. all controlled dialogue. unilateral thought. no surprises.
sure r.c. missed people. but the conversations he had in his mind, while stranded on the island for those years, never knowing he would be rescued-were probably some of the most perfect conversations a human can have.
i think every writer yearns for a real crusoe moment – tropical exile with food water shelter pen paper and a pet monkey. imposed sanctions of personal thought without the distractions of “real life” in which he can create and create alone. the petty conflicts of everyday interactions. the needed considerations for others feelings and sensitivities. the needed considerations for his very own set of insecurities and sensitivies. the loyalties one can’t do without (those with humanity, conscience, and a soul that is) that finds one disadvantaged now and again. the basic bio functions that steal time too often.
“aint nobody got time for that” – sweet brown.
now imagine just your purest uninterrupted thoughts- uninterrupted like the island stranded crusoe. brilliant! now imagine a few coconut margaritas with ice, some fresh caught surf fish roasting on a disease free stick over a smoke free fire, a hammock you proudly crafted yourself from banana leaves, a banana leaf thong you proudly crafted to match that proudly crafted hammock. a shipwrecked proctor and gamble tanker ship less than a mile away of toilet paper, soap, tampons, conditioner, body lotion, deodorant, razors, bugspray, chapstick, and ramen- now imagine a pen and paper in your hand. now imagine unstoppable success.
did crusoe ever learn to make his own paper and pencils while in exile? i hope so for his sake. a writer without paper = a madman.
yes the imaginary is more perfect than real life. boo hoo. but i will add that my movie is not devoid of believable heartfelt suffering. or conflict. but my goal was always to take the caca moments, so painfully true, and have the characters (and audience) experience a big payoff for their travails. in my universe there is sadness, but for the supremely intelligent, the poignantly honest, the brave souls willing to love a single person fully and at times above themselves rationale reason and tradition, there will always be justice.
hugs from odie to me and from me to odie,
o and om.
there are a few cards in the deck (tarot) that express the querents need to take the reigns; ‘the chariot’ card, as an example. the chariot card asks us to literally “put your damn hands up and steer the motherfu**ing wheel in order to reap the best possible scenarios for the future.
ive pulled the chariot card from the deck. i had a 1/78 chance to do so.unless you believe, like i do, that the cards we pick are a perfection of destiny’s message from beyond. so fate picked my card. i understand what the card asks of me. but my proverbial buggy wheels are rust and crumbling compliments of the a lifetime of inaction coupled with the unforgiving ravages of passed time. they will not turn.
the cards may be asking me to take my wheel. break this inaction. yet every choice we have made lately makes us feel as if we have stepped further and further back from the yoke. odie waits for me at home all day. while im gone i feel im watching the movie of my life as series of wholly uninteresting and disassociated pictures-a slow motion slide show we dislike viewing. a poor script indeed.
worse yet, we dont know why we feel this way. yet the feeling is true. this feeling grabs both of us.
odie wonders why im missing/working and not home. i wonder why im working and not home. when i was home i wondered why i wasnt working. then i wondered why work at all? then i wondered why not work all the time. then i wondered what the hell was wrong with me. for only an anxious fool blinded by a hate for all things conformity would ask such questions of himself. yet i didnt stop there. next i asked why ask about asking at all. why ask why. why not ask why ask why not. a carousel of self indulgent questioning was about the only thing turning in our lives.
the real problem; any work other than the screenplay leaves us distraught. yet we hesistate. and delay. then when we do get around to the task of writing our muse has left the building replaced by performance and perfection anxiety. our latest contributions have been streams of consciousness far outside the realms of traditional dialogue. weve had no joy in writing any of it. we cant sell it either. nor show it around.
we dont know why all of these jumbled feelings of failure and more failure have sewn us tight. but we want to know. perhaps this ‘knowing’ would scuttle the dilemma we face now.
i digress from my miseries. let me continue.
weve sat in a corner while others painted us in. thats far worse than painting yourself in. at least in the later, you f**cked your own game plan. i am no way absolving myself of responsibility about where i now sit.
at this moment we are overwhelmed by a deep sadness. utterly depressing sadness.
weve always wanted to be drivers of our ship. not waiting for someone elses. not a passenger. but a captain and commander. not a sitter in the only unpainted corner. but thats precisely where we are.
we fear our lives will be a series of “how come she never…” “so much ______ yet she never ______ with it’.
these quotes evoke a paralyzing inner fear. when youre this far gone down the rabbit hole of counter society the thought of climbing out and the work it will take to do so is dauntingly paralyzing. and thats just the work to get to the surface. imagine the work needed to succeed among the herd?
perhaps we were never cut out for the herded life? we know we werent. but even those with minimal _____ were able to eek out a living amongst the living. what does this then say about one blessed in so many ways by the gods, yet squanderer?
the final stab wound>the cuteness of youth and the endless possibilities of youth have left us.
ahh sweet bird of youth youve flown my coop.
a poem then?
“Sweet bird of youth youve flown my coop.
never to return.
admired more enviously with every day
perched upon the brow of another.
Leaving bitter a purgatory of mid aged shell
Not yet young, to wallow in folly of youth.
Not yet old, to see this folly and its gaze back fool
are one and the same.”
the rocking chairs and the canes of unaccomplishment surround us. ultimate fear jeers at us.
we are frozen. frightened. pitiful.
wheres odie with a translator collar when you need him? what would he say to al of this. what would he say about my long absences that leave him crying and lonely. if only he and i could understand each other more. i would explain why i am gone and return sad. i would remind him of my undying love for him and how strong it is though it comes from a person of perpetual inaction.
goodnite dear friends.please dont let the same ghosts haunt you as they haunt me.
let us pray.
There are times in our lives when continued reflecting stands in the way of.performance. Odie and i.dont want that to Happen. Yet we also understand that blind action can be just as negative a detriment.
For these reasons, odie and I are.trying to make June the month where we balance both output and contemplation. Our muses are taking stock. All 9.
How.are all of you ensuring that your creativities are being honed before shown? Yet not stifled during your editing process?