I Don't Know.
Posted: June 8th, 2011, 1:04 pm
What we have here is a failure to communicate between the assorted minds, conscious, subconscious, unconscious, nonconscious minds into a working nexus of minds.
A waking dream inspiration compelling a writing fury to capture fleeting conscious thoughts. There's a notepad, a voice-activated digital audio recorder on the nightstand ready to hand. Both notepad and recorder go along through the day accompanying in case a daytime inspiration surfaces. Nighttime wee dark earlies tossing and turning in bed with racing thoughts also accompanied by notepad and recorder.
A trunk full of notebooks stuffed with inspirations, musings, meditations, wandering thoughts; actually, it's a chest of drawers on legs, wood-grain formica countertop, cut off from an architect's desk. The drawers are folio sized, a size that stores full-sized newspapers flat. It's short and stout and bulging with material. A computer file directory for similar typewritten and audio recording maunders.
I threw it all away once upon a time, burned it in a trash barrel, executed delete, delete, delete, lost it in one shuffle or another. Until I missed one particularly cogent bit I couldn't recollect. It took some time to restore the inspiration. It was ashes and burnt toast to realize it hadn't been worth the effort. I shoulda, coulda, oughta have started over. I did. It was better. The next time I started over it was fully realized. Although the delivery left much to be desired. It was a creative vision worth the effort that needed more work, still needs work. It doesn't reach into audience creative visions like I know it could, should, oughta. It might as well be toxic waste.
I learned starting over is an effective working method when I was young. The dining room linoluem floor wax wasn't stripped sufficiently to meet expectations. Start over, Mom said. Breathing ammonia fumes and burning elbow grease, twice, a third time, the floor at last was ready for wax. The next time I would also wax the floor, but not that time. It needed to be done monthly to keep the floor shiny and bright.
But I obstinately refused to start over when I had a tiger of an inspiration by the tail. Now, though, the notepad and digital recorder collect dust. Stuffed desk drawers and bulging directory files ask to be let go. I'm tempted.
Although, I get it now. If a flash of inspiration comes along, I try it out for breadth, depth, and tension. If it holds up, it might make it into type or writing or recording. If it slips away, it will either come around again or evaporate. The ones that come back and stick are the ones I put a little more effort into and see and wait to see if they hold up for the long haul. The subminds have a way of reminding me, processing, fermenting, pressure cooking, simmering, sorting things out, and so on, that I'm letting do and listening to anymore. I don't sweat it no more. There's enough worry to fill my days and nights. It's fun again to write.
I'm taking a mental health day today. Yesterday was gruelling looking for an adequate place to stay in Babel.
A waking dream inspiration compelling a writing fury to capture fleeting conscious thoughts. There's a notepad, a voice-activated digital audio recorder on the nightstand ready to hand. Both notepad and recorder go along through the day accompanying in case a daytime inspiration surfaces. Nighttime wee dark earlies tossing and turning in bed with racing thoughts also accompanied by notepad and recorder.
A trunk full of notebooks stuffed with inspirations, musings, meditations, wandering thoughts; actually, it's a chest of drawers on legs, wood-grain formica countertop, cut off from an architect's desk. The drawers are folio sized, a size that stores full-sized newspapers flat. It's short and stout and bulging with material. A computer file directory for similar typewritten and audio recording maunders.
I threw it all away once upon a time, burned it in a trash barrel, executed delete, delete, delete, lost it in one shuffle or another. Until I missed one particularly cogent bit I couldn't recollect. It took some time to restore the inspiration. It was ashes and burnt toast to realize it hadn't been worth the effort. I shoulda, coulda, oughta have started over. I did. It was better. The next time I started over it was fully realized. Although the delivery left much to be desired. It was a creative vision worth the effort that needed more work, still needs work. It doesn't reach into audience creative visions like I know it could, should, oughta. It might as well be toxic waste.
I learned starting over is an effective working method when I was young. The dining room linoluem floor wax wasn't stripped sufficiently to meet expectations. Start over, Mom said. Breathing ammonia fumes and burning elbow grease, twice, a third time, the floor at last was ready for wax. The next time I would also wax the floor, but not that time. It needed to be done monthly to keep the floor shiny and bright.
But I obstinately refused to start over when I had a tiger of an inspiration by the tail. Now, though, the notepad and digital recorder collect dust. Stuffed desk drawers and bulging directory files ask to be let go. I'm tempted.
Although, I get it now. If a flash of inspiration comes along, I try it out for breadth, depth, and tension. If it holds up, it might make it into type or writing or recording. If it slips away, it will either come around again or evaporate. The ones that come back and stick are the ones I put a little more effort into and see and wait to see if they hold up for the long haul. The subminds have a way of reminding me, processing, fermenting, pressure cooking, simmering, sorting things out, and so on, that I'm letting do and listening to anymore. I don't sweat it no more. There's enough worry to fill my days and nights. It's fun again to write.
I'm taking a mental health day today. Yesterday was gruelling looking for an adequate place to stay in Babel.