something novel
I often find that my mind stands a few inches to the right of where my body is.
I am always slightly off-center.
Self-awareness meditation is the exercise of realignment.
Presence is the mind being where it should be.
Dead center in the void of your skull,
Where time doesn’t exist and past and future are delusions.
I often find that my body stands a few inches to the left of where my mind is.
I am never exactly where I should be.
After mulling around for a week about updating, it’s time to put my procrastination under the lamp and dissect it.
Head – The sorter of all thoughts. Eventually the mess piles up and you can only look on in utter defeat. As soon as you’re done sorting one pile, it’s already starting to unfurl and come apart. You’re scooping sand into a castle. No matter what, everything eventually scatters.
Hands – The creator of all human invention. There’s no way to fight the instinct to mold and shape the world into something more meaningful. The idea inside the head didn’t make it to my fingers. It got lost in translation I guess. Back to the drawing board.
Mouth – The jaw clenches when you feel tense. When I procrastinate, I bite the knuckle of my index finger. My pens are way too expensive to chew on.
Ears – Sometimes it’s too loud and sometimes it’s too quiet. I can’t work when someone’s talking, so why is it that I do just fine in loud coffeeshops? Right now I can hear the fridge humming loudly in the background. Sure I can listen to music, but I have to pick the right song. Now I’m spending more time skipping songs than I am doing any work. Eventually I get annoyed. No more music! But the silence…
Back – Didn’t someone say sitting causes people to die? Okay maybe that’s a hyperbole. When I sit for too long I begin to slouch. Everything’s so stiff. I think I better get up and do something else.
Stomach – Do I want a snack? What should I have for lunch? What should I eat tomorrow? Am I thirsty? Do I need caffeine?
Eyes – I wonder what’s happening on Twitter? Isn’t Trump being impeached right now? Let’s see how that turns out.
After lightning struck your mind into a thousand and one fractured pieces,
You stood in front of that prismatic stained glass, pointed to the image of God,
And asked, “Who am I?”
Do you ever marvel at old drafts? Some of those lines are so beautiful, I’m a bit envious of the person I used to be, who was less knowledgable, true, but who had more passion and could write with such explosive zeal.
But the past is always seen through rose-colored lenses. I actually suffered a lot back then. The smallest things set me off into an emotional downward spiral and I’d often fall asleep in the fetal position begging the powers that be to keep me from losing my mind. However, I felt ennobled by my mental illness because many of my favorite authors suffered from severe depression. More than half of my top authors committed suicide. I thought it was a rite of passage for being a good writer.
The truth was, those beautiful lines had been glimpses of light at the end of the tunnel for me. I spent the supposedly “best years” of my youth in utter despair. I cried a lot, for no apparent reason. I might publish that writing one day. I’m not sure if it has any value to outside eyes, but I’m not being hyperbolic when I say writing saved me. After all, I write to create space, and without those lines, my depression would’ve completely suffocated me.
So I guess I’m not envious of who I used to be—that’s not the right word. Actually, I’m proud. Good job past me!
I write to create space.
That’s all there is to it.
I take a piece of this, a piece of that, a piece of myself,
And I rearrange it to my liking,
Fixing the words like adjusting a picture frame
A little to the right, or a little to the left.
I write because the world happens too fast, or not fast enough,
And like a scientist, I put the most interesting parts
Inside a glass cage, and work it through an intricate maze.
I collect samples to put under a microscope
To watch the cells divide and grow, or die in vain.
I write because sometimes I overthink or I can’t think at all.
I need relief! I’m exhausted and I want to sleep!
I write to create space.
That’s all there is to it.
“Nothing is black and white,” I say.
Good and evil. Right and Wrong. It’s all relative.
Morality is a social construct.
You laugh and say,
“One day you’ll be brave enough to take a stand
For what you believe in, and for what you know to be just and true.
And when they come for you,
There’ll be no switching sides in the name of relativism.”
One day you’ll have to choose.
Not between black or white,
But to run, or to fight.
The painting above is what I used for “5 Ways to be a Better Creative” article. Actually it’s been put through the editor quite a bit so I’m not sure it can be called a “painting” anymore.
It actually started out as a semi abstract impressionistic painting of grass by a stream. I think if anyone saw the original they’d be pretty disappointed!
Bless technology. That’s all I wanted to say really.
When did you first begin?
At your first breath?
Or in the womb as you develop from embryo to fetus?
How about at the moment of conception? When your father’s sperm meets your mother’s egg to create the cell that is you.
But perhaps you began even before that.
Perhaps you began at the formation of those two halves. If so, you began in your grandmother’s womb when your mother’s eggs were first made.
But then, you could go even further back through the lineage of humanity and through all the evolutions of our species.
You could keep going until you’ve reached the form that gave us our lizard brain,
And all the way to the first organic organism on the Earth.
And, inevitably, we’d have to look to the swirling stardust in a young galaxy before reaching all the way back to the conception of our universe.
But keep going. Even before our universe and into negative space and into the primordial darkness.
Before the universe. Before time. Before matter.
“When did I first begin?”
I have always been here.
Seeing how it’s Black Friday, it’s only appropriate to write about consumption while suffering from a huge post-Thanksgiving headache.
But there’s so many great think pieces out there already that no one really needs repeated from me. As an artist, I always consume in order to create, but if you think about it, even someone who goes out and buys a luxury-brand brick is doing it out of a desire to create, only its a carefully crafted identity rather than a piece of art.
Our world and how we experience and navigate it, is not spherical like the Earth is. On our graph of reality:
x = Physical world to the extent we can experience it through our senses
y = Memory of past events and our mental database of what we know to be true
z = Imagination of the unreal, abstract, and conceptual that has little basis in reality
So our experience of the world is an amorphous and ever changing blob. Though if I had to give it shape, I’d probably call it a many-tentacled octopus.
Note to self: Elaborate on this concept some time.
Choosing Art 