So It Was Written
I have a side project where I'm typing up some of the stacks of notebooks I've filled with writing over the past several years. These are being typed into a separate, loner blog to free me up completely from censorship, and I can just get all the writing into type. Here's one I transcribed this morning.
Harry's Apartment | Troy, MI | A Sunday in July, 2000
The whole thing about originality is really dampening some dry areas of my crusty sponge. That to be original, you have to write from your innermost core; if you do that, you will be giving your unique perspective on everything, in every word you write. The perspective that can only come from me -- I alone am "me", have had my exact family and circumstances, reacted to and processed by the only mind in the world that is exactly like mine. That strikes me as pretty neat. Because I can "feel" the difference; it's a little subtle and hard to pick up or control, but with attention to it and practice, I think it just might be the answer to the flow and blockage and all that. It makes unnecessary "thinking" about how next to lay down the words, just what should be said about the topic at hand; the question won't even arise if I am writing from the deepest core of me. And that's really the only place that gives me any satisfaction to write from.
Keeping myself there -- connected -- while writing is the key. Kind of like my spirituality: it always exists within me, but I'm not consciously aware of it unless I make an effort to connect to my Goodness place.
What started this whole line of thinking way back at the second or so sentence was the thought that it seems like what Larry Coker said about himself and food. Larry lost like 600 pounds, on his own. Part of what he did to lose the weight is, when he'd sit at the table to eat, with the food there in front of him, he wouldn't begin eating until he had control over the food, and not the other way around. This really struck a chord with me -- with food, yes, but especially with writing. There is some shift of something, maybe that connection to my innermost being, where my output is really coming from me. Not only that, but it doesn't get routed through the Censor, Editor, Third Eye -- take your pick. It has the luxury of just pouring out straight from the center of me to the page. A direct flight, no layovers. Do not pass go. No stopping to pay tolls. And (I realize at this instant, because Harry is up so I want to wrap this up) I enjoy writing then!!
Man, I wish I had that journal of mine from when I was 16, the one my Grandma threw away. I would love to see how my thoughts came out back when I was unconcerned with the "writing" aspect. What a bummer that it's lost.
I'm back. Harry's just answering and reading e-mails. I got frustrated with just sitting there. Does my reaction stem from insecurity? What the hell does that word even mean? Argh.
Max e-mailed to all. He's been in Europe since Monday. He travels alone, spending some time with himself and the world. I'm so jealous that I'm light mint in color. I "get it" now, what he's doing. Some of my most "me" writing came about traveling, alone in a place unattached to me.
Later That Day | Why Dad's Mad Practice
Why must I be so aggravated with people some of the time? How much of it has to do, I wonder, with feelings I have of inadequacy? Am I worried that I am on the ignorant side of the line? That sentence was stupid. I'm half-listening to the girls and Chuck, around me. I think that sometimes I get backed up inside when people are "off" on some topic, thinking they have it right when they don't, but a topic that I don't happen to have had the time or happenstance to expert, myself.
Harry's Apartment | Troy, MI | A Sunday in July, 2000
The whole thing about originality is really dampening some dry areas of my crusty sponge. That to be original, you have to write from your innermost core; if you do that, you will be giving your unique perspective on everything, in every word you write. The perspective that can only come from me -- I alone am "me", have had my exact family and circumstances, reacted to and processed by the only mind in the world that is exactly like mine. That strikes me as pretty neat. Because I can "feel" the difference; it's a little subtle and hard to pick up or control, but with attention to it and practice, I think it just might be the answer to the flow and blockage and all that. It makes unnecessary "thinking" about how next to lay down the words, just what should be said about the topic at hand; the question won't even arise if I am writing from the deepest core of me. And that's really the only place that gives me any satisfaction to write from.
Keeping myself there -- connected -- while writing is the key. Kind of like my spirituality: it always exists within me, but I'm not consciously aware of it unless I make an effort to connect to my Goodness place.
What started this whole line of thinking way back at the second or so sentence was the thought that it seems like what Larry Coker said about himself and food. Larry lost like 600 pounds, on his own. Part of what he did to lose the weight is, when he'd sit at the table to eat, with the food there in front of him, he wouldn't begin eating until he had control over the food, and not the other way around. This really struck a chord with me -- with food, yes, but especially with writing. There is some shift of something, maybe that connection to my innermost being, where my output is really coming from me. Not only that, but it doesn't get routed through the Censor, Editor, Third Eye -- take your pick. It has the luxury of just pouring out straight from the center of me to the page. A direct flight, no layovers. Do not pass go. No stopping to pay tolls. And (I realize at this instant, because Harry is up so I want to wrap this up) I enjoy writing then!!
Man, I wish I had that journal of mine from when I was 16, the one my Grandma threw away. I would love to see how my thoughts came out back when I was unconcerned with the "writing" aspect. What a bummer that it's lost.
I'm back. Harry's just answering and reading e-mails. I got frustrated with just sitting there. Does my reaction stem from insecurity? What the hell does that word even mean? Argh.
Max e-mailed to all. He's been in Europe since Monday. He travels alone, spending some time with himself and the world. I'm so jealous that I'm light mint in color. I "get it" now, what he's doing. Some of my most "me" writing came about traveling, alone in a place unattached to me.
Later That Day | Why Dad's Mad Practice
Why must I be so aggravated with people some of the time? How much of it has to do, I wonder, with feelings I have of inadequacy? Am I worried that I am on the ignorant side of the line? That sentence was stupid. I'm half-listening to the girls and Chuck, around me. I think that sometimes I get backed up inside when people are "off" on some topic, thinking they have it right when they don't, but a topic that I don't happen to have had the time or happenstance to expert, myself.
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