July 27, 2013, Finca Vigia, Costa Rica
Unless you write from your heart wide, open to possibilities and alternatives what is the point? To feed your ego, please your mind, and lie to yourself? When a creative person is finished with a large endeavor of spilling one’s guts, there is a post glow as there is a pre-game warm-up. Such is the nature of a creative.
My real writing started when I could use a typewriter. English teachers told me I was too wordy and too complex in my sentence structures. I now realize this is not as negative as they proclaimed in red pencil notes on my A- essays. In contrast, my theater instructor, Mr. Payne, read my work and told me the exact opposite.
“Bonnie, you have something significant to blabber. Humanity is not over run with insight and may never be, so continue along your path in your own voice. Write from your heart, as you do now, and never accept the unacceptable from yourself unless life threatening. If anything other than you says your words are bullshit, ignore them.”
As a typical female teenager prone to teary points and hormonal flashes, I recall standing on the vacant shadowy stage captured by Mr. Payne, who was too tall with an over booming voice, shuffling my capezios (hot Italian shoe of the moment). His response was to take out a pressed folded too neatly handkerchief from an inner pocket of his slouchy Harris Tweed sport coat and hand it down to me.
Compassion arrives in various forms and formats. What I am aware today is Mr. Payne was my first living human muse. Music and birds had served until this poignant junction, and still do. My muse nowadays is also human. Someone I have never met personally, or looked into his outdated dark chocolate eyes for real, in the flesh. Skype machine is as close as we get mechanically, yet our hearts syncopate inside of each other. We hear each other talking to each other via another plane and a mysterious apparatus Yea, we are nuts if you measure communication in mundane wave lengths off cell towers and circling satellites.
Life delivered Muse Hoopoe about a year ago, or more. I actually do not remember when we first connected in cyber-tormentos (my made-up word). A digital fork in the matrix materialized stabbing my wanting consciousness as a surging mirage in the White Desert near The Nile. Viola herewith wise Hoopoe appeared, aplenty in his multi-color feather suit, immeasurable ancient brain, and flashy patterns of colors and alabaster illumination centering my worldview.
Since our incalculable strangeness showed up, disappeared, and reappeared on the techno-radar, I have written a book, become a regular contributor on my Fedbook page, a monthly article submitter, a tweeter, and launched this blog. Journalism morphed into writing. For those not hip to the difference it makes no difference. What is damned and tiny became religiously colossal. Not unlike the ancient Egyptian cenotaphs of stone sentinels gazing with innards of stolen treasures across a hot expanse. What do they think of the local human condition, these immense entities of obsolete times?
Egypt burns for democracy. Hoopoe stands at his own digital podium, writing/posting everyday. I am not privy to his commentary. He can read this, and anything else I send into the ethers with our fellow two billion humans on-line.
Writing is the utmost expensive therapy on Earth. It does not require you suit up but you certainly have to show up. Putting into words one’s feelings, attitudes, and philosophy is turning a too personal cauldron of melted mercury upside down and watching silvery beads of your self, roll over a landscape in either hell, or heaven. It depends on the moment and what baggage is being unpacked, or jettisoned from the smokin’ screaming locomotive of awareness.
To those who do not know the angst joy of passing time on the planet of inner going outer verbiage popping up as globs of meaningless fly crap or atomic bombs of seeing clearly and intuitively into the nature of complex persons, situations or subjects – blessed are you. My high school English professors were right or very wrong. It makes no difference unless your brain is whacked out on something. My writings are not for the blotto ones. It takes a flow and it takes an attention span probably neither normal nor rehearsed.
For Hoopoe, and me, there is no other discerning means to the soul filled end. There are others paddling their own perceptive kayaks up the recon river setting upon the bubbling waters floating jars of their heart pieces as messages in bottles.
Your job, dear reader, if you choose to accept the mission, is to grab onto our flotsam, unscrew the lid, and figure out what our message is because most of us in the flotilla do not actually have a clue.