more

There should be more
so much more
of loving
of words
of being still and quiet
of waiting with happy heart
knowing the return
is moments only
to wait

Now nothing fills the space
the moments pass
with empty dread
moments pass
with no promise
of a life
of a love
that holds us both
until letting go
is painful.

Silence and Sound

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.
    George Eliot, Middlemarch


I spent some time in the library yesterday. Reading. Listening.
I paid attention to the quiet, to the void of noise. I embraced it for its stark contrast to the ordinary noise bath that I normally prune in with mild contempt.
Then I began to listen for small scratches registering only slightly. The turn of the page. The clearing of the throat. Footsteps. The cadence of my own breath. I began to appreciate the space between silence and sound. Without one there could not be the other, like a relief in stone. There is the stone-- whole and complete yet we find the art not through addition but through removal. Without sound we would not have silence. The act of separating one from the other is where I experienced the beauty. Suddenly, I found a new appreciation for the sounds I forget to hear-- The ones that become like audio wallpaper, just part of our audible landscape. I appreciate the times of quiet not only for the respite, but because in it I find new appreciation for sound.

CW

As an aside, because this is the way my brain works and I really want to know who's brain may function like mine:

Do you think librarians secretly hope for someone to make some noise in the library? I mean yes they make a big display of disapproval at even the slightest above a whisper with their shhhshing and death stares, but I see some pleading behind those eyes for a little ruckus. I think they want it so badly just so they can exercise their mighty muscle of maintaining quiet and order... I slammed a book shut just to test my theory and considered it an act of kindness. :)

iceberg

I may or may not know what I want. I know what I feel. 

 Like a slow death. The waiting.

I have so much to say that gets choked back on that trick, that catch

that waits for my abandon and holds on white-knuckled

a death grip

I find the voice-- the one that can't speak

I float the words 

testing, tasting their tips

just the taste 

just the tip

Currently ...

1. I feel out of sync with all that is good and right on this planet because my CD player is broken in my car. 

2. I am contemplating why I have never found George Clooney or Brad Pitt attractive.





















3. I'm giving serious thought to Victor Hugo's "cure" for writer's block. His solution: “he had his servant take all of his clothes away for the day and leave his own nude self with only pen and paper, so he’d have nothing to do but sit down and write.”


4. I'm thinking of getting a servant.

5. I'm eating blue corn chips and guacamole.

6. I'm wondering how much longer I must suffer the absence of new Californication episodes. 


7. I'm a little pissed that boys get some really great smelling soap that the soap makers have obviously dedicated much time and research into how to make the scent last seemingly forever. Girls... have you found a girl soap with the same level of scent intoxication and duration without smelling like a fruit bowl or an unnatural flower? 


8. I'm considering entering the Florida Times-Union's Holiday Short Story Contest but feel incredibly irritated that I must begin my story with: "It was the largest snowstorm in Florida history..." What?!? Really? Makes me want to poke my finger in my eye...

Permission

Permission: authorization granted to do something; formal consent


In my writing I have a block. I practice restraint and constraint. I temper mood, feeling, intent, description, action and meaning. Why?


I am the captive and the captor with a serious case of Stockholm syndrome. I am constantly self-editing the content of my fiction motivated by fear of offense, misunderstanding or lack of discernment from my reader between fiction and reality. When I begin to drive a character to a place that I myself would not go, or create an action that I would not participate in, or even develop dialogue that I personally would not speak I sneak my pinky finger up to the delete key and find it hard to release it. I struggle with the role of originator of a story idea or character trait because of what that must imply about myself. If I take an idea or a character to a dark place, or create a perverse concept how will it be received by my reader... especially those who KNOW me... I cringe.
I like to write over the top sometimes-- to really go for it and stretch myself to the limit. When I am in that zone and find that creative space it is freeing to not hold back. When it comes down to then sharing the product however, I freeze and reject what I've created. I am a coward. This has been a source of much frustration for me lately. I find that I am looking for permission and at the heart of that is my need for approval in my writing. 
When I read some of my favorite authors, I notice a universal truth to their writing. I know that they gave it all. They took the chance. They gave the middle finger to whatever once may have held them back. These writers offer themselves, their characters and ultimately their readers an amazing gift-- permission. They give themselves permission to write what and how they want to write without censorship. They give their characters permission to be who they need to be for the story. They give permission to the story itself to be completely told. 


This is what I hope to achieve. I want to take my writing to a new level-- to a place of freedom and honesty. I am giving myself permission to write what needs to be written without judgement from my toughest critic... myself.