I’ve written (insufferably?) about how hard it is to wrestle my “thinking” brain into submission. Slowly, slowly I’m learning to distinguish between what it feels like when I write from an “idea” and what it feels like when I write from a deeper sense of intuition. It’s a way of knowing. It feels texturally different. Like the way it feels waking in the night to grope past familiar furnishings and doorways, skimming walls with fingertips on the way to the bathroom, eyelids heavy and sealed with sleep. It’s trusting you know what’s waiting in the dark. That when you reach out, a connection is felt. Not so much a spark as a glow. It’s a comforting heat in my gut.
And so it goes with the writing of the long project. I write—today at least—with a degree of euphoria because it progresses—it glows—forward. Unfolding tentatively. Gently. When the next section announces itself, it’s imagistic as opposed to conceptual. A few times, literally: the images are actual photographs calling…no, that’s not quite right, pulling my attention toward them for consideration, reflection, elaboration. Other times it has been a particular memory lifting itself from the body into the mind’s eye, a still, a snapshot of dream, a surprising association that feels like a…knowing. It’s the right “fit”. It’s the breezy riffle shuffle of a deck of cards settling into place.
At each of these inflection points in the writing—perhaps “at a bend” is a better description, I mean the point at which I’ve completed one section of associative writings and I’m not sure where it’s moving to next—I hear my inner voice resisting: no, don’t write about that! A few times I find myself obeying the inner voice and quickly fire off a list of scenes orbiting round an idea, a concept such as “secrets’ for example. But even as I do this, there’s a sudden tension in the body…a slight rubber band tautness in my spine. I’m learning to stop at this point and step away from the writing. Usually, it’s when I’m supposed to get going to work anyway, so the day’s relentless schedule intrudes to healthy effect at this point. At this point it’s important not to let doubt creep in. This makes me think of our culture’s perpetuation of a scarcity mindset instead of trusting the world’s relational abundance, but I digress. What I’m trying to explain is that it’s necessary for me to actively fight my fear my creativity will stop flowing. Instead, I’m nurturing a belief an ember continues to burn and will flame illumination in its own time. Believing is easier than exercising patience. I’m practicing both.
A fantastic discovery: unspooling the writings this way, deep subconscious workings reveal themselves…I suddenly see connections, surfaced through writing, between and across associations. Discovering them is a delight. It feels like there are multiple pathways and in their own way, any of them are right. And I’m keeping it light. Instead of going back and reworking those pages, I continue writing forward…practicing belief, practicing patience, practicing acknowledging and dancing past my inner voice, practicing how to recognise this knowing, this intuition. Feeling my way forward in the dark.
I wish I could share these writings with you here, but they’re nascent and…in progress…they move.
Another advancement: though much of the long project includes childhood stories, marriage, raising kids, etc., I have started to refer to the people from my life as “characters”. From the real world, through curation and composition, they’ve moved into the world of imagination and creation. They are transformed …malleable clay bits I mould and shape. It affords me a necessary distance to cultivate connection, joy (and sorrow), and entertainment for a reader. This is the first time for me this has happened. It’s a huge relief somehow.
I’ll end, for now, with a 2-minute recording of a poem in progress, Open-Air Mercado Piña Coladas. I’ve offered this poem for publication, but I recognise it continues to dwell in the thinking realm and I’m pretty sure it will boomerang back my way with rejection for that reason. Ah well. When I recorded myself reading it, I restricted myself to a single take…refusing to allow my vanity to prevail. It sounds overly performative to me…blargh…and I stumble on one of the lines, a sure sign that line needs tweaking. Ah well. Again. Fuck. One day my poems will sing. Here it is.
Process Peace 