Take Your Muse on a Date

I recently read a book about the writing life. The author suggested that one should take his/her muse out for a date. Treat her write. She inspires, fills, fulfills, and makes your life richer. By the way, have you seen the movie "Muse." If not, do so. I refuse to give away the plot, but will give you a teaser.

The muse, a beautiful woman, inspires these men to greatness. However, she demands much in return including expensive motel rooms, elegant dining experiences, clothes, etc. The guys sink thousands of dollars into her upkeep. On top of it she seemingly fails to deliver. She simply takes them to an amusement park or on a drive. However, the date does it.

The concept: Stepping back, enjoying the muse, enjoying the moment gives the muse her space inside the mind to do her best work.

Right now I find myself completing a couple term papers (for hire, Halleluiah!) on topics a bit challenging and dry. I need Ms. Muse. Here's some flowers for you, my love. I give myself over to your every whim. Just inspire me.

Intersection

Decision time
walk, run, or drive
follow the rules, the lights, the line
find yourself dead or alive

Run the risk of street using
crossroad, crosswalk, crosstalk
bear the cross of your choosing
choose, lose, but no balk

embrace your intersection
green light look ways both
personal vivisection
you made your choice, make of it the most!

Worthy of the Words.....I believe that words have a sanctity, a holiness, to which God has entrusted the writer. I compare words to atoms. On the macro scale words serve as building blocks of the idea world. On the micro scale words have within themselves an internal world of ideas. Each word contains a novel within and without.

I have not lived true to the calling. I have compromised.

The writer must have one light face. The dark side will destroy the atom.

Do what you love. More important, love what you do. Show the words love. Respect them. Respect yourself enough to handle them with clean hands.

Keep Writing Lover

"I'm a writer." Invariably my rapt listener will ask, "What do you write?" I write much poetry but never call myself a poet. I don't feel like a poet. What do poets feel like? Now there's a question. I started writing poetry after my divorce to deal with emotional pain. I tried journaling but found that journaling intensified my feelings to suicidal levels. I tried to quit writing but have a serious addiction to words. One day at Portland's original Rose Garden, Pennisula Park, late in the afternoon I wrote a poem. It saved my life. Thank you, God.

I needed a way to let out pain that did not involve guns, knives, or carbon monoxide. To my delight I found that poetry had a built-in safety valve. The beauty of the language made the pain of the words bearable. I cried tears of pain and tears of joy at the same time. Over the next months poetry helped me see beauty both inside and outside of the words. The more I wrote the better I felt. For a time people wondered just where I got my smoke.

Poetry's gave me an avenue to reenter the writing world. Originally I wrote to express deep emotions. Today, I have wider purpose. My poetic healing has freed me to start a couple novels. I write less poetry today than I did early on in the divorce. However, I still write two or three poems a week. Poetry feels like singing to me. I can write something; however, if I want to bring music to the words I resort and revert to my poetry. To me the world seems ugly. Poetry helps me see the beautiful.

Today I went a poetry reading sponsored by Spare Room featuring Crag Hill and Douglas Rothschild. As mentioned above I don't feel like poet. Let me say that differently. I feel inadequate. Today I went to the reading with the feeling very much on the frontal lobe.

I enjoyed hearing both men read their poems. I realized quite soon that they wrote for a different poetic purpose. Their poems did not drip with emotions or flowery imagery. Neither seemed suicidal. Both men have taught writing in upper echeleon educational instituitions. They had a better, wider grasp of literature than myself. They spoke poetically of international politics and inconsistencies in American policies and philosophies. As you might imagine my inadequate feelings went off the scale.

Surely these guys would see my poetry as mindless, emotional drivel. I rode away on my bicycle feeling full of good food but empty of confidence in my poetic existence. With that feeling I sat to write this blog. I got to right here when I had an incredible, brief, glancing but powerful epiphany hit my brain. I saw a similarity.

It brought tears to my eyes. Both poets spoke of something obviously painful to them. Both spoke of socio-politicial ugliness. It obviously bothered them. They felt pain, yes, of a different nature than mine but pain nonetheless. Ugliness and Beauty Wed in the Santified Hall of Poem's Cathedral. Beauty made the Pain bearable.

Ugliness and Beauty Wed

in Poem's Cathedral

socio-political, personal, human ugly

take thee beauty, metre, metaphor, and rhyme

yielding unbearable children bearable

ugly terrible

with tender and for this time

beast and beauty snuggle

in Poem's Cathedral.

Some people think that writer's live as a tortured lot. To the contrary, I have found most writers happy and well adjusted. I do believe, however, that writers by the nature of their craft observe more than the common populace. They see the ugliness that others miss in the rush. Sensitive souls, that ugliness bothers. Writers and poets in particular long for beauty. Ugliness powers their desire for beauty which accounts for the two sharing the same bed.

I sometimes hear writers criticize other writers. I understand. However, something in me rebels against the criticism. I love anyone who puts pen to paper. I love their courage. I love their longing for a different world made of their creating. We all have room for improvement. Who can say that the poem written from the mental ward in crisis has less value than the one written from the halls of institutes of higher learning?

I left the reading and stopped by Laurelhust park where a symphony orchestra played Haydn. I started this blog there. I closed my eyes. I seldom listen to classical music. I like the lyrical and melodic themes of different musical forms. Classical music feels directionless and random to me. I lean toward composers like Vavaldi because he has clearly musical themes. Please forgive me music critics. Thank God, however, that we have different music genres. Thank God we have different writing voices. God teaches me to look for the similarities and appreciate the differences.

What a day, huh? Ideas for this blog started in my new friends' backyard listening to poetry, continued in the park listening to Haydn, developed into concrete thoughts at Starbucks listening to James Taylor, and at 11:20 p.m. comes to completion at 24 hour Fitness after the hot tub and with a bit more of Taylor in the ear buds.

I usually end the blog with some admonition to the courage creative ones. I woke up late. I felt nothing creative stirring within and went to the poetry reading with high hopes and low energy. I felt little through the reading but took notes and wrote a poem there. I had unrecognized, unacknowledged feelings of inadequacy festering in my pysche. My Muse kissed me on the cheek, "Hey, inadequate one, if there were no ugliness, would you or could you write of beauty? Keep writing, lover." And so reader, listen to my Muse. Keep Writing Lover.

The Advantage of Blind Faith

I set out for Hollywood and arrived. See proof. See the pained expression. I look that way squinting into the sun and leaning back enough to get the Hollywood sign in the picture. I arrived at Hollywood but someone just told me that I missed California. I sit in Hollywood, Oregon a subcommunity in Portland.

Often in life we end up someplace other than we planned. The years pass, the cynicism grows, and we get beat up along the path toward the wrong place. I have always liked the line in the movie "Seabiscuit" where Smith the trainer says to Howard the horse owner, "You don't throw away a whole life just because it's beat up a little." Smith understood that with horses, but later in the movie their jockey, Spiderman (Toby Mcquire), Red Pollard, admits that he has lost vision in one eye. Smith wants to throw him out on his ear. Howard takes him by the shoulder and gently says, "You don't throw away a whole life just because it's beat up a little."

The road to Hollywood has bodies strewn along it's shoulders. We encounter life. Creativity needs nurturing and usually goes first along with our innocence and imagination and our faith. It takes effort to develop it and faith to keep it. I will show some unusual honesty here. I have trouble keeping the faith in regards to my creativity. Hey, even Stephen King had thrown his books in the trash. His wife fished out Carrie and sent it in to a publisher. King had already done it before. For some odd fate reason, the publisher took it this time. Even Stephen King had lost faith in himself.

What keeps me going? Sometime I give up and go watch a movie or worse. I keep coming back. Why? One, I think God has called me to this and has given me some gifting--that's the way you say it if your from Minnesota or were taught not to have confidence. Confidence and pride meant the same thing to my parent's generation. And so I struggle to believe the calling or the gift.

Sometimes it helps to go back and read something published. Believe it or not I have published. I recently reread some stuff I wrote years ago, and had to admit that "it was pretty good." Sometimes it helps to hear other authors at a book reading. I'm in need of that again. It helps to just keep writing. It helps to dream a little about success even if it takes imagination. I dream of my first book tour. This blog helps me keep going. I know that at least I write and hopefully develop a following.

I have learned that you cannot and must not try to get faith from others. They probably don't know their calling nor do they have faith in that calling. How can you expect them to have faith in you?

You know, it helps to have "blind faith." The Bible says, "Faith is the evidence of things not seen." It helps to go blind because the blindness that prevents you for seeing success is the same blindness that prevents you from seeing the obstacles to your success. Use blindness to your advantage. Turn that blind eye to obstacles, failures, limitations, temptations, and past mistakes. Why do I choose to see failure and refuse to see success? If I pretend blindness, why not live blind to it all?

I have rambled. Today's blog shows me processing during a downtime in the writing life. Obviously, I'm writing and so it evidently worked this little talk with myself. I hope it helped you. Keep living creatively. God made you that way.

Speaking for the Speechless

I spoke at a memorial service today for my sailing buddy. Bob had wanted to sail his whole life and upon retirement had the opportunity. I had the privilege of learning with Bob in those early years of sailing. His wife wanted someone from his sailing circle to speak. I felt honored to tell some sailing stories and talk about my friend.

Several people came to me after the service and expressed gratitude for my words. It touched me and caused me some thought. In the service I made the comment, “If I had to choose one word to describe Bob, I would choose the the word 'gracious'.” I heard an audible, collective gasp in the audience, and could see the word hit them. All felt the same and knew that I had hit upon the right word. His wife shook her head in acknowledgment and tears came to her eyes. I went on to tell some sailing stories illustrating his graciousness (see yesterday's blog).

Other people felt what I felt. I put it into words for them. Most times I think that I write for me to express my thoughts. Often I think about the people for whom I write. I have never thought of writing as me expressing thoughts and feelings for others. When you work on your particular craft, you develop an ability to do something that others may not have the ability to do for themselves. Today, I spoke for others. I expressed their thoughts, their emotions, and their connections with others.

I need remember this lesson. I write for others, but I express words for the entire human race. I have seen the same in music. I can't make the music, but I trust others who have chosen that endeavor to sing and play for me. I can't do pottery, but the potter expresses what I can't. I can't work on my car either. I depend on the creative mechanic to communicate with the beast.

If you have no desire to live the creative life for yourself, think about living it for others. You creative outlet gives you a unique opportunity to express what others cannot express for themselves. I speak much about writing because I have chosen that avenue. Your creative expession may lie more along the lines of drying flowers. Use it to capture the beauty that I don't know how to capture.

Random Acts of Writing Kindness

George Bailey Goes to Oregon

He lived His Wonderful Life

now in Stumptown free of Bailey Bank strife

He lives a coffee snob.

He and

Clarence hob nob.

Sip, sip, ring, ring, another angel earns wings.

Your persevered balusters loose wanting to fling.

Tonight you and Mary will Willamette walk

and of your Wonderful Eternal Life talk.

I wrote this poem some months ago in a coffee shop which featured Wonderful Life paraphernalia. When doing my laundry, I usually slip over to this kava shop to write. I like the atmosphere and the folks who work the counter (excuse me Barista...what's a female Barista?)

I could leave a tip like normal folks, and I do. However, I like to utilize the personal touch occassionally. And so, I'll write a

poem for a shopkeeper or a brief note to someone who looks down. Words have great power.

Recently, I came across an old friend through Facebook. We worked "together" for a curricula publisher. I laugh when I read that last sentence. I never met my boss nor did I meet this friend. I worked as a freelance writer in Oregon for the company based in Texas. Anyway, the company went under and put the employees through some rough stuff. In the middle of it all, I wrote my friend a note.

Some fifteen years later I learned that she has kept that note. I love that about writing. Had I just spoken a word of encouragement, it would have encouraged for the moment. Writing has an eternal quality. "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God."

Last summer I got a job helping paint a house. The crew usually retired to a coffee shop in the locale for lunch. The Black Cat has a unique atmosphere. We have a large lesbian population in Oregon and seemingly many of the shops cater to and/or have that population as proprietors. Did I say that delicately or what? As a side note they had a sign in the restroom which read, "The hardest thing about explaining my move to Oregon was convincing my mother that I wasn't a lesbian."

Anyway, I liked this little shop and it's folks (Baritas again). One day I got to talking with the baritas about writing--imagine that. I asked her about her writing life. I felt connected and wrote her a poem. I don't think I save that poem which strikes me as odd. I gave it to her and left. Let me put your mind at ease. The poem encouraged her as a writer. I kept the love part to myself; although, as a fellow writer I did feel a good measure of "love" toward her.

I love to see my work published. I like money and acclaim, but I live for these little moments writing where I can touch another's life with encouragement or comfort. Use your creativity to enrich the world. I have this theory. If I learn with my writing to enrich my world with the little "w," quite possibly God will use me to enrich the World.

As always I end by encouraging my fellow travelers toward creating. Create people! Create in love. Create to enrich the lives of others and in the process find your own enriched.