My thoughts are that the only true "last frontier" is the human mind. So much of our brain goes supposedly "unused". While this has been explored by many, and of course, many minds far more intelligent than I, my feeling is that we do not come anywhere near our ultimate potential.
The person who unlocks that secret, unlocks the gateway to eternity...
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Keep the Passion Going
Writers hearts lend themselves to any emotion drifting in on drama winds. We allow our personal traumas, or perceived traumas, to control key aspects of our lives, like our fingers, for instance.
We should sit behind our glowing monitors, slapping out letters like Babe Ruth on steroids, creating base hits, doubles, triples and the occasional homeruns, but all too often we mope about, derelict wanderers sailing the white-screen waters of oblivion.
Have you ever slumped into your writing chair, fired up all the components of your craft and felt like drowning in electronic white-out? (Younger folks - never mind...).
The writer's freeze deserted me years ago when I learned the simple way out of that particular dilemma. Simple, but like anything else in life, not as easy as one would hope. How do you escape the 'white zone'?
Write through it. Are we writers or are we cowards? Often writers appear to fear the corrupt and otherwise disorderly sentence. We cringe at the thought that crap emerges from our fingertips, yet emerge it does.
Writer's block exists as an excuse for writers to flee their craft. Why would a writer do that? Fear. Laziness. Low self-esteem. Anxiety. Sex. (Ok, I'll buy into that last one...)
'Writing the muse' tosses a writer's heart off a high mountain ledge with our keystrokes wings keeping us aloft. We soar and dip and thermal and flip and joyfully glee in all we write.
Somehow eventually we lose control, the muse flits to some other bird and we flounder about more like a fish on concrete than that eagle so majestic. Writer's block rears its foolish head playing tricks on our minds, convincing us we own no talent nor do we command any brilliance.
And we listen. We should stuff our ears with cotton prose and blather like a child ignoring a sibling. We should run as far as our nimble fingers can key us, to a land we create in the very face of such an enemy. We should spite the block AND the muse.
Amazing as this may sound, the block and the muse occupy the offices of both ally and foe. The block as a foe stands apparent, but as an ally, the block can inspire. When writers become blocked, they can use the situation as a call to free-write - to step away from tedium and simply write their mind as it flies hither and yon. The block can whisk you away to exotic places, dark intimacies or violent passions.
The muse as foe? I hear you saying I'm nuts. Writers rely on this Tinkerbell too much. The muse wows us with her divine presence, then leaves our sails flat and windless at her whim. We then either sulk through our white writing ocean going nowhere, or we begin blowing on our own sails. We rig an oar out of discarded pens and pencils and flee yet again to the free-write where anything goes.
The muse will not keep our passions flowing. The block cannot stop them. Once a writer understands he or she has complete control, both the muse and the block become allies we can rely upon. Our passions then rely on the one person they should - us.
We should sit behind our glowing monitors, slapping out letters like Babe Ruth on steroids, creating base hits, doubles, triples and the occasional homeruns, but all too often we mope about, derelict wanderers sailing the white-screen waters of oblivion.
Have you ever slumped into your writing chair, fired up all the components of your craft and felt like drowning in electronic white-out? (Younger folks - never mind...).
The writer's freeze deserted me years ago when I learned the simple way out of that particular dilemma. Simple, but like anything else in life, not as easy as one would hope. How do you escape the 'white zone'?
Write through it. Are we writers or are we cowards? Often writers appear to fear the corrupt and otherwise disorderly sentence. We cringe at the thought that crap emerges from our fingertips, yet emerge it does.
Writer's block exists as an excuse for writers to flee their craft. Why would a writer do that? Fear. Laziness. Low self-esteem. Anxiety. Sex. (Ok, I'll buy into that last one...)
'Writing the muse' tosses a writer's heart off a high mountain ledge with our keystrokes wings keeping us aloft. We soar and dip and thermal and flip and joyfully glee in all we write.
Somehow eventually we lose control, the muse flits to some other bird and we flounder about more like a fish on concrete than that eagle so majestic. Writer's block rears its foolish head playing tricks on our minds, convincing us we own no talent nor do we command any brilliance.
And we listen. We should stuff our ears with cotton prose and blather like a child ignoring a sibling. We should run as far as our nimble fingers can key us, to a land we create in the very face of such an enemy. We should spite the block AND the muse.
Amazing as this may sound, the block and the muse occupy the offices of both ally and foe. The block as a foe stands apparent, but as an ally, the block can inspire. When writers become blocked, they can use the situation as a call to free-write - to step away from tedium and simply write their mind as it flies hither and yon. The block can whisk you away to exotic places, dark intimacies or violent passions.
The muse as foe? I hear you saying I'm nuts. Writers rely on this Tinkerbell too much. The muse wows us with her divine presence, then leaves our sails flat and windless at her whim. We then either sulk through our white writing ocean going nowhere, or we begin blowing on our own sails. We rig an oar out of discarded pens and pencils and flee yet again to the free-write where anything goes.
The muse will not keep our passions flowing. The block cannot stop them. Once a writer understands he or she has complete control, both the muse and the block become allies we can rely upon. Our passions then rely on the one person they should - us.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Writing is Life
Writing is life. Writing extracts that which darkens our souls and lends light to those blackened remnants of our passions. Without writing we go postal. Without writing we go psychotic. Without writing we visit counsellors, psychiatrists, priests and confidantes.
Life should be experienced from the inside. We should learn to describe our world and emotions from an internal perspective - not the external emotional bloodbath of movies, television, books and the like. We desperately search out kindred feelings but we're unable to express that which lies deep within us.
Writing teaches us to reach down, to grab a handful of the hodge-podge trapped within and release it to the wind. Who cares if anyone reads? Who cares if only the electrons check out your sad state of affairs. Once these vile gases leak out, the pressure within diminishes. Freedom then springs upon us like a flower in May. Beautiful change and silken laughter become available to us once again.
All because we care enough for ourselves to write. Write it down people. Get it out. Save yourself.
Life should be experienced from the inside. We should learn to describe our world and emotions from an internal perspective - not the external emotional bloodbath of movies, television, books and the like. We desperately search out kindred feelings but we're unable to express that which lies deep within us.
Writing teaches us to reach down, to grab a handful of the hodge-podge trapped within and release it to the wind. Who cares if anyone reads? Who cares if only the electrons check out your sad state of affairs. Once these vile gases leak out, the pressure within diminishes. Freedom then springs upon us like a flower in May. Beautiful change and silken laughter become available to us once again.
All because we care enough for ourselves to write. Write it down people. Get it out. Save yourself.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
More Pain
When did I become a doormat? This really confuses me. When did I get to the point where some ungrateful bitch holds power over my emotions. That sounds really "judgemental" doesn't it? That sounds really "Oh, you're a bad boy who deserves everything he gets" kind of guy, doesn't it?
What if I don't deserve it? What if she really IS a bitch, a self-centered, money-grubbing, back-stabbing, unbalanced bitch.
Why would you be with someone like that, sonny?
Fuck you.
That kind of language is probably why she's actin' that way sonny.
Fuck you again.
What're you gonna do about it, eh? You gonna get all tough guy and posture and cock around like some rooster?
What the ....? No. She can go to hell.
Oh, now that solves everything.
Ok, ok. You want to know what I'm going to do? You see that - "going" - not some punk-ass non-word like "gonna". I'm going to get myself together. I'm going to hold my head high and go on with my life. I already told her that I didn't deserve to be treated the way she treated me and that I don't appreciate it. All she can do is respond like the sorry, low-life bitch she had become. It's a shame when a person's words don't live the person's life. She talks a great game, but in the end, she's just a lame, broken down cow that is bitter, untrusting, untrustworthy, short-sighted woman who's in this life thing for whatever she can grab and it doesn't matter who she tramples to get it as long as she doesn't have to work to hard for it. Fuck her and the sorry negativity she brings into this sordid world.
I may be seeing some glimmer of life in you sonny boy. Maybe she IS a bitch and you WERE wronged. Whatcha gonna do about it?
I thought I just told you.
No, what are you going to do with the pain. The hurt. The crushing blow your heart felt when she crushed it with her bitch hammer.
Oh that.
Yea, that.
I'm going to nourish it, take care of it, and watch it die with each step I take to make my life better. The hole has been there in my heart before. I know how to heal it.
I thought so sonny.
You're not so bad once you get going.
And you are not as bad as she makes you out to be son. Don't allow her to steal your passion. Make her fuel it. And don't you believe a word she says. She's as full of shit as the next fellow. She just doesn't know it.
Ignorant . . .
Now now.
Thanks.
Anytime.
What if I don't deserve it? What if she really IS a bitch, a self-centered, money-grubbing, back-stabbing, unbalanced bitch.
Why would you be with someone like that, sonny?
Fuck you.
That kind of language is probably why she's actin' that way sonny.
Fuck you again.
What're you gonna do about it, eh? You gonna get all tough guy and posture and cock around like some rooster?
What the ....? No. She can go to hell.
Oh, now that solves everything.
Ok, ok. You want to know what I'm going to do? You see that - "going" - not some punk-ass non-word like "gonna". I'm going to get myself together. I'm going to hold my head high and go on with my life. I already told her that I didn't deserve to be treated the way she treated me and that I don't appreciate it. All she can do is respond like the sorry, low-life bitch she had become. It's a shame when a person's words don't live the person's life. She talks a great game, but in the end, she's just a lame, broken down cow that is bitter, untrusting, untrustworthy, short-sighted woman who's in this life thing for whatever she can grab and it doesn't matter who she tramples to get it as long as she doesn't have to work to hard for it. Fuck her and the sorry negativity she brings into this sordid world.
I may be seeing some glimmer of life in you sonny boy. Maybe she IS a bitch and you WERE wronged. Whatcha gonna do about it?
I thought I just told you.
No, what are you going to do with the pain. The hurt. The crushing blow your heart felt when she crushed it with her bitch hammer.
Oh that.
Yea, that.
I'm going to nourish it, take care of it, and watch it die with each step I take to make my life better. The hole has been there in my heart before. I know how to heal it.
I thought so sonny.
You're not so bad once you get going.
And you are not as bad as she makes you out to be son. Don't allow her to steal your passion. Make her fuel it. And don't you believe a word she says. She's as full of shit as the next fellow. She just doesn't know it.
Ignorant . . .
Now now.
Thanks.
Anytime.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Pain
Ever been blindsided by someone you've bent over backwards for? Ever been devastated emotionally because you believed that this person would never forget all the good you did for them and turn on you like a cornered badger?
When this happens, my confusion skyrockets. I suppose I believe people will treat kindness well all the days of your life. Kindness is only a temporal phenomena it seems. Life becomes a series of "what have you done for me lately" acts that eventually tumble and fall like all things on this earth.
It still hurts when it happens though. The pain of cruel words and more cruel intent dig deeper from those you believe like you. Their actions make you question whether you are doing the right thing in life by giving a person a hand up. Once on their feet they often seem to bite that hand. Then they'll defend their actions with some internal logic that makes no sense in the real world.
I had my day handed to me with force right in the gut today. I suppose I shouldn't have questioned why the person was so upset with someone on Facebook. I couldn't see the reason, so I made my observations and asked what was up.
I got blasted. What's worse, I got blasted because I hadn't read the comment thread between the two people. Their conversation got heated. Had I read that, I would have known why. I was handed my head and told I was a really good friend but ...
When will people learn the damaging power of that word? But is nothing but a brutal word for everything nice I said about you is not true. I suppose I should not get so upset. After all, this person was just taking advantage of me anyway. There's a certain amount of unhappiness that comes with putting yourself out there. I just wish the pain did not have to come my way. I don't like being hurt, especially when I know the person who did it will never own up and truly apologize.
I'll have to eat the pain and move on. Then, as always seems to happen, you have to interact with the person afterward. Both of you pretend nothing happened but the distance grows and you end up going your separate ways.
I loathe conflict. I loathe the fact that the very people who befriend you are the ones you'll eventually have to deal with on a battlefield of words, ideals and emotions. There is no peace in this life. And there is no pain like the pain of the heart.
When this happens, my confusion skyrockets. I suppose I believe people will treat kindness well all the days of your life. Kindness is only a temporal phenomena it seems. Life becomes a series of "what have you done for me lately" acts that eventually tumble and fall like all things on this earth.
It still hurts when it happens though. The pain of cruel words and more cruel intent dig deeper from those you believe like you. Their actions make you question whether you are doing the right thing in life by giving a person a hand up. Once on their feet they often seem to bite that hand. Then they'll defend their actions with some internal logic that makes no sense in the real world.
I had my day handed to me with force right in the gut today. I suppose I shouldn't have questioned why the person was so upset with someone on Facebook. I couldn't see the reason, so I made my observations and asked what was up.
I got blasted. What's worse, I got blasted because I hadn't read the comment thread between the two people. Their conversation got heated. Had I read that, I would have known why. I was handed my head and told I was a really good friend but ...
When will people learn the damaging power of that word? But is nothing but a brutal word for everything nice I said about you is not true. I suppose I should not get so upset. After all, this person was just taking advantage of me anyway. There's a certain amount of unhappiness that comes with putting yourself out there. I just wish the pain did not have to come my way. I don't like being hurt, especially when I know the person who did it will never own up and truly apologize.
I'll have to eat the pain and move on. Then, as always seems to happen, you have to interact with the person afterward. Both of you pretend nothing happened but the distance grows and you end up going your separate ways.
I loathe conflict. I loathe the fact that the very people who befriend you are the ones you'll eventually have to deal with on a battlefield of words, ideals and emotions. There is no peace in this life. And there is no pain like the pain of the heart.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
How Did We Get Here?
I just looked over my titles of recent blogs - Cattle Prodded Masses, Islam - An Orgy of Murder, I Am the Last Confused Man - and I realize I have a gift for titles that grab. Too bad no one reads them. The good thing so far is the content hasn't been deemed worthless. Of course, one day that may come to pass. Someone may actually stumble across this writing and respond with, "Oh my god, this blog is crap!"
Writers live with that stigma hanging over their heads. We write and write and write and often it sucks. Then we hit that moment of lucidity where all the planets line up, God Himself gives his blessing, the masses are in a funk and boom! there is a gem to capture everyone's attention - for a moment.
Criticize writers all you want. At least we have the balls to put it out there. At least we have an attention span long enough to contemplate more than our next party, meal, screw, game or whatever distraction is top on everyone's list in THEIR particular moment. Society today lives like it will never die.
I'm not attempting to be morbid, but do you really have nothing better to do than watch 36 hours of football over the weekend? Or how about 100 hours of TV a week? This shit is ROBBING YOU. This shit IS STEALING YOU LIFE!
I'm a football and basketball fan. Hell, even Tiger Woods has made my sports window. But I look back over my life and wonder at all the hours I used to spend watching SOMEONE ELSE DO SOMETHING I WANTED TO DO! Give me a basketball and a hoop over watching the prissy-assed pampered NBA millionaires any day.
I suck at golf, but I love the serenity of the manicured courses. I love the challenge of attempting an excellent drive or a putt of any kind. In football, there is nothing like a perfect spiral settling into someones' outstretched arms or making that one-handed grab in stride.
Screw television. How many times have we been told "TV is the great wasteland". This has been a quiet little voice for decades. Are we going to continue to avoid life by living through electrons presented to us by people who "have our number?"
Do you realize you are programmed by government and corporations? Oh my god, he's on a "big brother conspiracy kick!" Wake up people! I'm not presenting fiction! Step away from your television for three weeks. Turn it off and get a life. See what I'm talking about.
We have a world. We have beauty all around us. There are smells, tastes, concepts, relationships and countless other aspects of LIVING that we deny each time we sit in front of an ever-more technologically enhanced BOX and allow anything resembling life to leach away into fat cells and dulled minds.
So sure, criticize the writer. Make fun of his or her manic ideas of freedom to live and breathe without electrons dominating our life. Criticize the opinions we dare to form and put out there for consumption. At least we're paying attention and are brave enough to express our thoughts.
This is my rant and confusion for the day - How did we get here? How did we get to the point that life is not a short gig and beauty is something to be viewed antiseptically.
Writers live with that stigma hanging over their heads. We write and write and write and often it sucks. Then we hit that moment of lucidity where all the planets line up, God Himself gives his blessing, the masses are in a funk and boom! there is a gem to capture everyone's attention - for a moment.
Criticize writers all you want. At least we have the balls to put it out there. At least we have an attention span long enough to contemplate more than our next party, meal, screw, game or whatever distraction is top on everyone's list in THEIR particular moment. Society today lives like it will never die.
I'm not attempting to be morbid, but do you really have nothing better to do than watch 36 hours of football over the weekend? Or how about 100 hours of TV a week? This shit is ROBBING YOU. This shit IS STEALING YOU LIFE!
I'm a football and basketball fan. Hell, even Tiger Woods has made my sports window. But I look back over my life and wonder at all the hours I used to spend watching SOMEONE ELSE DO SOMETHING I WANTED TO DO! Give me a basketball and a hoop over watching the prissy-assed pampered NBA millionaires any day.
I suck at golf, but I love the serenity of the manicured courses. I love the challenge of attempting an excellent drive or a putt of any kind. In football, there is nothing like a perfect spiral settling into someones' outstretched arms or making that one-handed grab in stride.
Screw television. How many times have we been told "TV is the great wasteland". This has been a quiet little voice for decades. Are we going to continue to avoid life by living through electrons presented to us by people who "have our number?"
Do you realize you are programmed by government and corporations? Oh my god, he's on a "big brother conspiracy kick!" Wake up people! I'm not presenting fiction! Step away from your television for three weeks. Turn it off and get a life. See what I'm talking about.
We have a world. We have beauty all around us. There are smells, tastes, concepts, relationships and countless other aspects of LIVING that we deny each time we sit in front of an ever-more technologically enhanced BOX and allow anything resembling life to leach away into fat cells and dulled minds.
So sure, criticize the writer. Make fun of his or her manic ideas of freedom to live and breathe without electrons dominating our life. Criticize the opinions we dare to form and put out there for consumption. At least we're paying attention and are brave enough to express our thoughts.
This is my rant and confusion for the day - How did we get here? How did we get to the point that life is not a short gig and beauty is something to be viewed antiseptically.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Exposure to Myself
Why am I doing this? The odds of anyone finding this blog are slim. I'm not advertising it. Anyone who reads this will basically have to stumble across it. Who knows. Thirty years from now when I'm old, feeble or dead, someone may discover my confused ramblings and call them art. Or not.
This evening, my confusion lies within. Ok, so that's confusion's usual location, but this one strikes at my heart. Why do I fear and love public speaking? Why do I subject myself to the rigors of writing and giving a speech and all the stress this involves? Yet, somewhere I receive great satisfaction from speaking. I'm sure the satisfaction stems from the accomplishment.
Two weeks from now I will be giving a speech at the Toastmasters Division 84 Humorous Speech Contest. My speech will not be humorous as I am the "test" speaker for the Evaluation Contest. This is an honor and a challenge. I will have plenty of time to get a speech together and deliver it on the largest stage of my speaking career to this point. The challenge is there. The fear is hiding. Why is that?
Fear usually freezes me and screams, "You can't do this you fool! You're terrified to speak in front of strangers!" Is it that I'm still too far out from the speech date to be concerned? What will my speech be about? Do I wish to dazzle them with brilliance or baffle them with bullshit.
I'm not sure I own the capability to dazzle or baffle. Something tells me I'll do well. This is not the normal modus operandi of my emotional self. I am usually cowering in the shadow of potential failure or embarrassment. I recently spoke twice at Toastmasters, so possibly the proximity to having given a couple speeches has me confident. I just hope this sticks around.
Having keyed this, I realize I may have placed key words like "Toastmasters" and "speech" in here. Someone doing a Google search may find my little hideaway blog. If you are that person, have pity on my ramblings. I'm a published author that needs a vent space. This is my dumping ground. There's no telling what you'll find here. No telling whether it'll be worth reading, but as any writer knows - it is WELL worth the writing.
Writers MUST have the opportunity to vent. To dump garbage. To be opinionated when they are stifled elsewhere. Nothing like the digital age to help us along. I want to knock these people's socks off. I want them to know I'm a viable force in the speaking world. I'm just now realizing I may have turned the corner and finally come into my own as a speaker. This next speech will tell the tale ...
This evening, my confusion lies within. Ok, so that's confusion's usual location, but this one strikes at my heart. Why do I fear and love public speaking? Why do I subject myself to the rigors of writing and giving a speech and all the stress this involves? Yet, somewhere I receive great satisfaction from speaking. I'm sure the satisfaction stems from the accomplishment.
Two weeks from now I will be giving a speech at the Toastmasters Division 84 Humorous Speech Contest. My speech will not be humorous as I am the "test" speaker for the Evaluation Contest. This is an honor and a challenge. I will have plenty of time to get a speech together and deliver it on the largest stage of my speaking career to this point. The challenge is there. The fear is hiding. Why is that?
Fear usually freezes me and screams, "You can't do this you fool! You're terrified to speak in front of strangers!" Is it that I'm still too far out from the speech date to be concerned? What will my speech be about? Do I wish to dazzle them with brilliance or baffle them with bullshit.
I'm not sure I own the capability to dazzle or baffle. Something tells me I'll do well. This is not the normal modus operandi of my emotional self. I am usually cowering in the shadow of potential failure or embarrassment. I recently spoke twice at Toastmasters, so possibly the proximity to having given a couple speeches has me confident. I just hope this sticks around.
Having keyed this, I realize I may have placed key words like "Toastmasters" and "speech" in here. Someone doing a Google search may find my little hideaway blog. If you are that person, have pity on my ramblings. I'm a published author that needs a vent space. This is my dumping ground. There's no telling what you'll find here. No telling whether it'll be worth reading, but as any writer knows - it is WELL worth the writing.
Writers MUST have the opportunity to vent. To dump garbage. To be opinionated when they are stifled elsewhere. Nothing like the digital age to help us along. I want to knock these people's socks off. I want them to know I'm a viable force in the speaking world. I'm just now realizing I may have turned the corner and finally come into my own as a speaker. This next speech will tell the tale ...
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