I'm not a Writer

I'm not a writer at heart. I've come to discover this as I take one more class after another that involves some form of creative writing. It's not because I'm bad at writing that I say this, it's not because I don't think I could be good if I really spent time on it, it comes down more to inner passion. Writing is tedious, it's long, it takes effort, editing, grammar, spelling, all things I hate. Homework self imposed is a journal.

Writing is often called a craft because it's not simply saying things, it's saying things with a dedication to beauty, to construction. Placing the words in such an order that an idea flows forth, that divinity is born from nothing but letters on a page. This craft brings the soul out because the words are right, the craft of assembling those words, that is the craft of writing. But I have little interest in this, the words are always secondary to me, in fact the words often get in the way. The story is what is important, the story is my passion.

I know for sure that I am a story teller, I would give up pen and paper forever in exchange for a flame, glowing eyes, and open ears. I would be happy to describe adventure and sorrow night after night, telling the same events but never using the same words, because the words are important only in service to what needs to be said. Stories are the real power, stories transform.

I've seen kids become adults for an instant while reflecting the light of the fire when I've reached the end and the silence falls. I've met people who couldn't remember my name but knew every detail about the old man and the young archer after hearing of them only once from my lips. I've seen people change.

I live life in pursuit of a story, or a few stories, and nothing makes me happier. When things go terribly wrong and all I can do is wonder how I got so deep buried in shit, I always have a glimmer of optimism, devious against dispare shining in the back of my mind saying “but imagine the story you'll tell when you survive.”

I've said that on my death bed all I'd like is a story to tell and people to listen. There has to be people, I can't have stories with no one to tell them too, I can't just send my words out into the dark to be forgotten, if that's all they are then why not let them just bounce around in my head like they always have? When I started writing a blog I was finally able to continue writing. Only 4 people read it as far as I know, but that's enough, I know someone out there has heard what I'm saying.

Writing is just a medium to me, a device through which adventures are drawn out of my head and smeared on a page. It's not the real thing, it's not the real thought, but it's as close as I've gotten so far. If I thought it would help I'd shave off bits of gray matter and hand it to people on the street saying “know me” diminishing my self each time, but thinking it a worthwhile sacrifice through out.

“Know me” I say not “like me” I write to be heard, to be known, it's not about writing things that people will enjoy, it's about writing things that people can know. In writing I am telling you about me. I am telling you about you. And it's important to never let the words get in the way of the idea.

I am not a writer because I am not enmeshed in it. I know people who write like it's their opiate, people who write on the edges of menus and cereal boxes when they can't find a piece of paper. Those are the true writes, people for whom putting words down is akin to breathing. I am not a writer because the breath of my soul doesn't come from words it comes from meaning, it comes from stories, it comes from experience. I use writing to figure out what my passion is, I write to describe it so that perhaps I can figure it out. But I know writing is not the end for me. Writing is just the process of investigating the mystery that pulls me forward.

magnets

Love is off on the edge of my horizon
because I'm polarized and my
positive side is addressing
that force charged positively

it floats around trying to find
it's way in, orbiting my arms and
legs and head and face

I grab Love in both hands,
I draw it close
I caress it's face
it's warm body
smooth skin
soft

I believe in it's beauty
I want to kiss it
hold it against my chest

It needs me too
With out me Love
is a river with no bed,
electricity with no wire

but it also cannot stand
me and the harder I pull
the stronger it
pushes back

so I pour all my strength into it
pulling love in.
I feel it hurt
as the force cracks
my ribs,
breaks my nose,
makes me bleed,
I draw it in,

harder

Harder!

HARDER!!




until,



finally,







I flip





.

pictures from october 9th, 2009

These days I am so busy with school I haven't had much time to write anything. Not to mention the fact that I have a journaling class where I write most of my stuff these days so I haven't been putting anything here, but here are a very more pictures I took today while wandering around.