I just suddenly realized that the greatest problems came from going too slow. I've set out to write three novels this year, when I should have aimed higher. I just aimed too low, with the speed that I can do. I am going too slow, and that's why I'm bored.
I went outside tonight to the street-lamp lit space underneath the bridge. The place they moved the sorry excuse for a park that they leveled for a show space across the street. Now it double as basketball court, tra-kaw court, a place to dump gym equipment, and do some aerobics sometimes, but they moved that behind my house with the children playground. The orange blow of street light, and me alone in the darkness with a box-cutter. I just watch the cars go by, and then wait for myself to catch up in this place where its quiet.
It's then that I notice that I'm going at a certain speed. A speed that's not quite right for how fast I need to go. Writing is like that sometimes. I've been surprised how much more writing I'm doing now that I have a faster keyboard. On the slower keyboard, writing was a pain unless I'm doing the kind of writing that requires slow thinking. I can still change and hook that thing up if I need to, coffee stains and all, but I prefer this.
I prefer having something that might just be fast enough to catch my thoughts as I abuse it all over.
So now what am I shooting for? Of my high speed education, I'm achieving the workout schedule. No problem, and I'm about a month or two away to lifting my own body weight. Reading books I'm averaging about 3-5 books a week, and I'm blaming that on the World Cup, but I also know can be faster. On the writing well, it's only been when inspiration strikes that I can write with any sort of enthusiasm. Now it's gotten to me; I don't really need that right now to write all the same. I need speed, and not that much precision. I need to keep clubbing the damn muse until it's all soft and I can apply it evenly on the canvas. I just gotta keep writing at a certain speed because my mind just works that way. In editing comes what people call a genius, and I'm no good at that. I'm just the curious guy trying to understand how this all works. So I'm going to speed write a couple of things this week, and now I'm going to aim say, for a novella in 2 weeks, and perhaps a novel a month.
Ambitious, yes? It's only the fear holding you back.
Something for those who know: Sometimes you sleep just because you're afraid of staying awake...
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Type of Artist I Want to Be
Been digging around my hard drive looking for another piece when I found this. The document said it was written on April the 20th of this year. :D
I wish to join in the ranks of great artists whose work expressed their unique individuality, their burning core of creation. Human beings who accepted their authentic vision of beauty come what may. Ruin, or late acclaim or even madness might follow, but I know this; that the voice that compels me to write, compels me to speak, my mind's eye that sees the visions of worlds unknown, those are mine and mine alone. Worlds of beauty and horror to visit and terrify every night, and day dreams that are more real to me than anything I could ever share with anyone. They are mine and mine alone, and the trill of their exploration, the trill of crafting them into words, pictures, voices, thoughts cannot be shared. They cannot be repeated. The ranks are few, and far between, diaries come close, but not always. There's that filter in between the writers and the reader, and the less of that coming the closer I get to my core.
I will write something to make one awaken instead of fall asleep. And see the day for once. To write another novel, another piece where the reader could close the story, feeling happy and fulfilled inside for having witness another perform the task that one essentially understood to be theirs to do. No I seek to jar those with half and eye open to fully witness, to stare upon the fire here, the shadow puppets, and see the light if you dare for yourself.
A sense of life...
Each moment becomes a moment to dream. Where I belong, my own oblivion. I need no one now, can have no one.
This training, this craftsmanship aids in the communication of it, but the beauty of the inner space of the creator is something only he can work on himself. It is the boat from within to without, the link, the communication, but it will not replace a void, a cheap imitator, or a dishonest hack. Those who spend their time singing others song be weary of forgetting your own. When the voice can no longer tell its own from the others, when its vessel would mold itself completely in idol worship of another, then creation is abandoned for ritual, a performance of something past and done.
Creation is active. I must know what I think. I must do what is rare to achieve what is rarer. The truth cannot set you free if you never speak it, or speak it without honesty.
And if the blood falls in between my fingers, to disfigure either of us, I know that it is only an eye on the world that it ever was. You could learn to love a monster. But you must learn to love whatever it is you do first.
Small platitudes. Performance is the order of the day, achieving a sort of 'realism'. It's always a realism never real. A world where you're taught to smile in politeness, smile to hide anger, smile in the face of death, to smile when you don't feel like it so others won't be upset, to smile instead of yawn, to smile at our own ignorance. What then does a smile actually look like? We're taught to act, but not to be. We're told to be free, but never shown. We're made to fear, and feel ashamed when we are.
This utter lie the swallowing of that I weep for. Tricked, lied, and rewarded to act and not cognizant of their hollowness, I see the void that children become. It's ever sad, and constantly said. Children learn ever so well. To learn instead of to grow. At last we are here a spoon fed society. Unable to grow, but constantly willing to learn, to adapt. Unable to live, but fearful of death.
In another life I might have been a serial killer, if I taught others worth killing. Now I wait for my moment, scheming, hoping.
Learning has robbed away the spirits of men. Where the majority subjugate themselves to rules never questioned. Marching in lock step towards individual dreams on hollow grounds. So lost, so trapped, and so unaware. Knowledge is there, but it is never free those whose themselves unfree.
I wish to join in the ranks of great artists whose work expressed their unique individuality, their burning core of creation. Human beings who accepted their authentic vision of beauty come what may. Ruin, or late acclaim or even madness might follow, but I know this; that the voice that compels me to write, compels me to speak, my mind's eye that sees the visions of worlds unknown, those are mine and mine alone. Worlds of beauty and horror to visit and terrify every night, and day dreams that are more real to me than anything I could ever share with anyone. They are mine and mine alone, and the trill of their exploration, the trill of crafting them into words, pictures, voices, thoughts cannot be shared. They cannot be repeated. The ranks are few, and far between, diaries come close, but not always. There's that filter in between the writers and the reader, and the less of that coming the closer I get to my core.
I will write something to make one awaken instead of fall asleep. And see the day for once. To write another novel, another piece where the reader could close the story, feeling happy and fulfilled inside for having witness another perform the task that one essentially understood to be theirs to do. No I seek to jar those with half and eye open to fully witness, to stare upon the fire here, the shadow puppets, and see the light if you dare for yourself.
A sense of life...
Each moment becomes a moment to dream. Where I belong, my own oblivion. I need no one now, can have no one.
This training, this craftsmanship aids in the communication of it, but the beauty of the inner space of the creator is something only he can work on himself. It is the boat from within to without, the link, the communication, but it will not replace a void, a cheap imitator, or a dishonest hack. Those who spend their time singing others song be weary of forgetting your own. When the voice can no longer tell its own from the others, when its vessel would mold itself completely in idol worship of another, then creation is abandoned for ritual, a performance of something past and done.
Creation is active. I must know what I think. I must do what is rare to achieve what is rarer. The truth cannot set you free if you never speak it, or speak it without honesty.
And if the blood falls in between my fingers, to disfigure either of us, I know that it is only an eye on the world that it ever was. You could learn to love a monster. But you must learn to love whatever it is you do first.
Small platitudes. Performance is the order of the day, achieving a sort of 'realism'. It's always a realism never real. A world where you're taught to smile in politeness, smile to hide anger, smile in the face of death, to smile when you don't feel like it so others won't be upset, to smile instead of yawn, to smile at our own ignorance. What then does a smile actually look like? We're taught to act, but not to be. We're told to be free, but never shown. We're made to fear, and feel ashamed when we are.
This utter lie the swallowing of that I weep for. Tricked, lied, and rewarded to act and not cognizant of their hollowness, I see the void that children become. It's ever sad, and constantly said. Children learn ever so well. To learn instead of to grow. At last we are here a spoon fed society. Unable to grow, but constantly willing to learn, to adapt. Unable to live, but fearful of death.
In another life I might have been a serial killer, if I taught others worth killing. Now I wait for my moment, scheming, hoping.
Learning has robbed away the spirits of men. Where the majority subjugate themselves to rules never questioned. Marching in lock step towards individual dreams on hollow grounds. So lost, so trapped, and so unaware. Knowledge is there, but it is never free those whose themselves unfree.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Potential
To accept the heroic
and individual
in oneself.
To express
and experience the uniqueness
of this imagination to the edges
of its own possibility.
And to feel
the struggle and the strain
and the doubt.
Because I bring it on myself.
I bring it on myself.
How else can I own it?
How else can it belong to me?
The crimson seeds sown upon battlefields,
or trees now palisades
to keep the planters alive
were not sacrifices I needed to bear, to understand
How much a burden...
How much a strain...
Did you fight for freedom?
That there more kindness in the youth
who embraces sight
that the old can
no longer see
What a mess....
White clouds riding upon the winds,
may only give shape,
to the one that can see through
these voices that sing mimicry,
and be precious only to those that can paint
against blank skies.
I look upon the eyes of those that aren't my enemy
And quiet respect for the struggle they endure
I wish I could free them from the hands that have them chasing,
laurel leaves they already hold.
Though criminal as that may be,
the worse crime is to deny
thee, thee
I will make them see
I will make them see
There's nothing more precious
than the dying light that is
thee
and individual
in oneself.
To express
and experience the uniqueness
of this imagination to the edges
of its own possibility.
And to feel
the struggle and the strain
and the doubt.
Because I bring it on myself.
I bring it on myself.
How else can I own it?
How else can it belong to me?
The crimson seeds sown upon battlefields,
or trees now palisades
to keep the planters alive
were not sacrifices I needed to bear, to understand
How much a burden...
How much a strain...
Did you fight for freedom?
That there more kindness in the youth
who embraces sight
that the old can
no longer see
What a mess....
White clouds riding upon the winds,
may only give shape,
to the one that can see through
these voices that sing mimicry,
and be precious only to those that can paint
against blank skies.
I look upon the eyes of those that aren't my enemy
And quiet respect for the struggle they endure
I wish I could free them from the hands that have them chasing,
laurel leaves they already hold.
Though criminal as that may be,
the worse crime is to deny
thee, thee
I will make them see
I will make them see
There's nothing more precious
than the dying light that is
thee
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
