The Art of Documenting Self

in #writing5 years ago

I spend this evening with writers, one famous? Maybe, more, all are published and two prolifically. I couldn’t tell you their names—well, not last sur’s. And all night they talk about the little money to be earned doctoring this craft (especially witch-doctoring I note in who gets the air to speak), and I who have no book gathered, nor published, though I paint with words nearly every day, drive home thinking how I am an amateur in that delightful way that Robert describes, those who catch butterflies just because they love colors and flutters and not because they collect and pin down a scholarly Oxford paycheck.

Children after moths who are, as always, attracted to flames--you see, there are some who are in the story (like pretty much all the individual grains of sand) and only a few who are simply those who believe they elevate to live, voyeuristically these scenes, the life of art, the art of living, unfold, pour the sands through the hourglass, the soap of Days, more keyed about how they saw the story, yes, after the fact! And, how talking a slice of all perspective, mouth to paper, creates a gleaming Christmas ball, a thin shelled sphere that in whole spins catches and reflects holy glow and here, I must also add, I’m bored to death with politics when there’s a GOD!

How small we seem when we only see our own star, a pinhole pressed through black cloth, the one that shields us from a too bright, brilliant expanse, a rainbow bridge where black and white meet violet, sapphire, emerald green, carnelian and every bricked spot of poppy jasper gift your dead grandfather pitches at you from the foaming, frothy, roaring sea! Veils and midst’s and secret handshakes pulled apart, freshly cored hearts, way down poetic, under the ocean, Hail Atlantis, where I want to be!

Video Credit: Carlos Lara via youtube

P.S. Talking topics included logging, lawsuits, Organic, fracking, rivers, Woody Guthrie, Rolls Royce's, working class London dialects, Vietnam War, father's and American men of a certain age and especially, with very specific and pointed importance, garlic. And, these are the colors of a lifetime of stories, a book, freewrite prompts to last months?

P.S.S. And praise for Steemit being this log of thought, where there are artists gathered in incorruptible, out-of-corporate, no matter splatter ;)

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Unfortunately, I can't see the video because it has been blocked due to copyright in my country (Canada). I'll look up Carlos Lara and see what comes, but I thought I'd let you know.

Stay lit!

Look up Atlantis by Donovan :)

Beautiful song/poem filled with the timeless Celtic or Gaelic spirit. Perfect for a rainy Autumn day.


BBC Two

We were watching the documentary of "Australia: Earth's Magical Kingdom" last night and were awestruck to be reminded of the intelligence and playful ease (of surfing dolphins) - or at times frustrated intent (of the glorious rainbow cuttlefish)- and overall magic of the ocean's creatures. They are our brother animals, sacrificing their collective soul in a specialisation we now don't have to explore to every depth or height (thinking of the petrols who stay aflight 5 or 6 months non-stop- might they bob upon the ocean waves? Or only rest upon a thermal wave? In any case, they stay out at sea for that length of time).

We both knew at that instant should the world come to fail (flashing lights, screeching sirens: "Evacuate Now!" "Abandon Ship!" "This is not an exercise....") we would get ourselves to an Antipodean island or perhaps a Polynesian one (where tourists venture not and the canibals have long since left to join the bandwidth) and watch the whales in their nursery grow up gracefully, and dive to tickle the spotted whale sharks on their nose (they are entirely docile and feed on plankton, would you know!) and bump our heads on a manta ray when resurfacing, but they wouldn't mind, as long as you don't touch their tails (to discover them crabby cats) and maybe pull out Novalis or Rumi (or finish Winne-ther-Pooh by the fireside keeping watch over the turtles laying their eggs; and all this not to escape the brimstone and hellfire, nor too easily upset by the news (what news? ha ha. Nothing new alas in the past 500 years for sure) but to pay our respects to that part of ourselves too much neglected in the face of illusion (those off casts, the animals, who altogether go into making up the consciousness of our Planet); without the constant distractions that bind us to the illusion that anything at all matters but love.

How on earth does one think that we can take our books with us into the Akashic Library? Why then attach any importance to the work of writing? A bad habit hard to shake: that's all it is. We might as well get paid for it, because we pay for everything nowadays; it's a trend no point avoiding. Why NOT get paid for it? Why indeed are we NOT getting paid for our conscious efforts to mark what matters most? Praise for Steemit? Praise at most for the scribe (you) who keeps my understanding uncorrupted in one of the most polluted currents I have had to sail on through for the past two years.

Praise for a space, a journal that does at times bring some truly incredible dialogue back my way (YOU :) So that is the gratitude I was touching on.
I like to be paid, it's just not my main motivation, but I'm sure there's a nice middle ground.
Have you ever seen the movie Whale Rider? I bet you have, but if not might be a nice one to watch together.

Hey well done your words sound like you've been inspired by the writers' muse.

Hey well done your words
Sound like you've been inspired
By the writers muse.

                 - julescape


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