Posted by: scintillatingspeck | July 2, 2013

Perfect writing time.

The only way I’m able to write, of late, has been in bursts, snatching imperfect moments in my hungry hands, surrounded by sloshy cranberry bogs of distraction.  I envision this mythological Perfect Writing Time in my mind, polish it in the palm of my hand like a clear, precious marble, waiting and waiting for the precise moment when I receive a nod from the muse to Begin Writing Now.  The problem with that is that Perfect Writing Time is as evanescent as a distant mirage on the highway.

Instead, the muse sits me down with kind, warm eyes for a talk.

I know, your nephew is practicing the piano.  Your child wants apple juice, and she wants it now.  You are not at home, you are out of your element, your neck hurts, your laptop keeps slowing down or freezing up, and you have the residue of familial conversations on your brain.  Your sister’s voice is several decibels louder than you would prefer, and you can’t control her volume.  You want to curl up in a languorous ball, float off into a daydream of love and rivers.  I’m here to say, now is the time.  I’m here to take away the precious marble.  Begin writing now.

Really?  Really?!

You wrote on Facebook, didn’t you?  How did you manage to do that?

I wrote a haiku as a status update.  It was nice and short.  That’s how.  And Sam responded, as he often does, with another haiku, and then lo, a thread of haiku was spun.

Perhaps you can articulate why that felt so much easier than writing on your blog.

There was no pressure, no expectations.  I wasn’t alone.  It was fun.  I wasn’t trying too hard.  It was in a place where I knew it would scroll on by, instead of initiating it somewhere that feels, somehow, more permanent.

You were in the spirit of play, dwelling in the moment.  That’s what you always say you want.  Can you let go a bit more, relinquish this idea, or this hope, that your words could ever be permanent?  You know they’re not, right?  Can you allow writing to be more like performance art and less like a stretch towards immortality?

Can I?
I… I could try.  I could.  My embarrassingly messy, vulnerable performance, my little, temporary, rickety stage, my voice that alternates between a whisper and a song, depending on who I think is listening… my mortal dance, in this inevitably clumsy body, I can offer these, because they’re what I have, who I am, invented moment by moment.

The playful thread of haiku, with your hair down, you could bring it here.

And so I will…

(co-written with Sam Dodge.)

more than a little
inspiration rolling through
embodied ether

mind-aligned wavelets
mixing, roiling, rising tides
wild joy, flowing true

intricate love tales
inscribed in india ink
in the book of life

onion skin pages
transparent illustrations
blue words showing through

manuscripts rustled by hands
patient and trembling

chapter melts in verse
heartbeat couplets, sky breath lines
wind of life unwinds

Mobius haiku
cycle spawned Ouroboros
sings exuberance

sighing out in verse
the thrumming, eternal pulse
of the universe

nummy BLTs
sizzling bacon, fresh-baked bread
now in chapter three

buon appetito
I can smell bacon from here…
enjoy it, now, k?


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