The image above stands alone. Gallery to be added later with another writing.
August 13, 2016
For the past several weeks no writing of consequence touched the electronic paper. Who knows why, who cares? It is an act of rebellion. A middle finger salute to all words and phrases issued forth from these hands. There is no explanation at this point.
For sure one will slither out of the slime of thoughts having begotten such phrases. In place of lengthy or medium sized palpitations projecting from this mind there is a reason. Just not one bubbling to a flat and level plane at this time.
There are words brought about instead expressed in other ways. Most humans call those poems. Whether or not they qualify for that status remains for the judgement of others to ascertain. It has come to this writer’s attention what is written with these fingers has become a shorthand, a precisely tart and minimalised amount of words expected to convey the most meaning with the fewest syllables.
Often words left out presuppose their existence; i.e. “Answer the door”, and not, “Will you answer the door?” See? A tight and controlled set of paragraphs. Minimum verbiage, maximum meaning. A shorthand of sorts, but with maximum message, and a unique voice of translation. Writing is a quantum leap of faith, one that may convey many meanings. So it goes.
This is what that means: this writer’s writing is evolving. Clipped sentences, like grocery coupons, contain more meaning than first thought and writing in this manner a change of construction of sentence structure is taking place. Not exactly poetry, but a form of writing incorporating it into sentence structure.
This is possibly why not much newly aggressive themes have spewed forth. One is struggling with a form of expression that moderates poetry and long sentences with complex ideas. There it is. More poems, fewer soap box grand-standing events.
It is one of those occasions where the writing leads the writer, not the other way around. This brings these fingers into the situation and more is made clear. As this writer pursues many avenues of self-fulfillment, this particular language greases the page and slides into a most poetic avenue of pursuit.
This writer was not aware of the evolution taking place, just an absence of enough words knee-jerked denigrating thoughts, and verbal chastising. This all comes with a sigh of relief, and a “Thank God for that,”
phrase of reassurance.
Whew! Thought this might be the end of the line. Never happen. As long as this body, this mind, these fingers find their writeful place on the electric paper, ideas flow like the ’Spice’ of Dune. Some will, however, take longer than others to find voice.
Four more poems, and the adventure begins. ‘Five Thousand Three Hundred Forty-Four Miles’, was transcribed to electric paper today. It has been hiding in plain sight, it just needed the right phrase, words, or fractured fragment of a storm to kickstart the process. Always a relief to get it out.
‘Five Thousand Three Hundred Forty-Four Miles’ will not be published at this time. Now there are three. These emotional expressions arrive at their own time. One cannot rush, push, or force such expressive thoughts.
This clarification has been a weight lifted, and not with an Olympic sense of reference. Other acts of rebellion concern getting out of our comfort zones. Stepping on thin ice is one way to test the strength of ourselves. How far can one go before falling through?
Goodnight to everyone. I am grateful for your visit. Thank you.