Wednesday, January 30, 2013

"Writers block" an allay

            Writer’s Block



            Life is writing. Health is editing. All good living and health is the flow of ink; all illness is some form of writer’s block.

            There are just a few indispensible songs on my playlist. How they came to me and how they moved me, I am uncertain, whether fate placed them on my path, or whether chance accidentally dropped them there. They are forms I repeat indefinitely, they open congested channels of energy that flows into beautiful circuits, they unblock me.

            How do we get past gridlock? How do we dissolve the block? How make a bypass? What music opens the soul? What dance? Spiritual suffering somatizes – that is how we escape. By translating our problem, by leaping planes, we get around it. Mind becomes body, body becomes mind. Jumping registers opens flow. We need multipe goals we can toggle.

            A powerful lead is balked and blocked, faces a dam and can’t express its necessity, aching though it is, until it finds a teasing inlet, and then bursts through that detour. The tickle of indirection must first make same tentative initial contact with the desired, and then it can flood on through.

            In the past, men wanted shortcuts to believing in themselves (or in themselves through the gods). Miracles were alleged signs that a man ought to be obeyed – but truth needs no such theatrics and beauty is self-evident. Only deceptions would require the miraculous for substantiation. Yet that is breaking a deadlock, getting through impossibility to real possibility, the only thing that matters: what does life look like when I believe and act this way? What miracles amount to is illusions and insanities that let us break past an impasse.

            Art too breaks us past impasse. Ideas work on ideas – that’s their operation. But all forms of art can be made into analogies for ideas, and show us how to interpret other things. Part of the mind, the metaphorical mind, sees all in each. We must build the confidence and courage to burst the knots. We must find for every challenge an analogous precedent.

            With our equation liberty is fear is power, we take fear in its most glorious form, courage, for liberty belongs to warriors. “I Ovath, anxious days of endless plight, thunderhunt at Shivat’s mock. Eru soothes my eager ears – the fall of style relieves my years.” This fourfaced Goddess, the Father, Mother, Son, and Daughter, these archetypes that sink the deepest, give me recourse to endless art and miracles. The mythology works magic, and stirs my mind.

            Ink dissolves mind. The ability to write, to fill Facia, my blankbooks, with endless ideas, is so much solvent. I am able to bypass my blocks, my various blocks, by toggling my attention, by letting my stomach dissolve the fat diamonds while I attend my lessons elsewhere. Practice is key. One must be patient as time. Impatience is the baby huffing himself into a fit, and you must be statue still. Where courage falters, pride insists. We must devour our fetters, and make their strength our strength. In our allform, that language by which we comprehend all – in writing for instance – we ascend all mundane constraints.

            My womb is the American melting pot, I assimilate all forms, I unite them in to the allform. In this, no block is permanent, for my philosophy is fluid, it dissolves all obstacles. I take my problems before the mirror, I reflect. My inner well of silence, my organ of stillness, quells with volume –narrowing away the frittering worries of daily life. A variety of words present themselves to write and include, I am ever tempted to use them. I choose around them. The place of silence drowns all distractions. The immensity of my silence as the inner sea neither heeds nor disputes, but wordlessly absorbs and comprehends all. Here the very air is music. I can front the facts because I have frozen distractions.

            I am all, my ways allistic: I can be both, I can be either. My greatness owes as much to my foolishness as to my wisdom, as much to my crimes as my justice, as much to my confusion as my certainty. Every vector places me well empowered on my path to triumphant bliss.

            The energy wells from my soul, always the build and release, always the dam and overwhelm, always appetite and satiation. I am expressed, I am spent, but wisdom lingers. Simplicity is best, those few stark words, the epitome of all word-tomes. They remain with unconquerable rectitude, the sparse phrases knit and penetrate all worldly forms. I braid my way through books; I live in books. A few voices, my wonderful readers, your undulating love, my Lissidy, bring me back to the necessity I purpose towards. You are the anodyne to my solitude. I share with you the gamework, the playwork, the relaxed intent. What matters in this is that we persist. Persistence is success. And greatness is impossible without a proud ego. Being proud of our ability to create is being receptive to the greatest power that can well from the inner divine. Proud means podere, to be able. The well of energy, my reader love, my proud ego, are the dimension of my game. The play of my game is surmounting obstacles towards my goal.

            The deadlocks are built in. Our fantasies are deliberately made of impossibilities. For frustration waters the well, it gives us rivers. We set the friction, we build impossibilities, we dare impossible dreams. That is why we find an external enemy: what a convenient strategy for integration! Nations do it. Religions do it. And so we differentiate ourselves. We enjoin our days to a labor independent and proud. We oppose this person, this party, this system of thought, and are set in an external deadlock.

            We build deadlocks into the system, impasses, and dream what we know we can’t have. I am materially grounded but spiritually soaring. I wish my friends to have dancing days, such dancing days as this!

            Impossibility is a trope, a trick. But necessity opens possibilities for me. Necessity is the mother of invention, genius the father. Not just anybody can unlock a romantic heart. The words must be known by intuition, as natural as breath or step. They must be necessary and fatal as life and death.

            The flush of wine unstraps my throat and the wine is love for you, Ama. I fall into you, fall into innocence, I swoon for your love. I am powerful for you, I walk strong, I insist, always to impress your loving eyes. All my writing is finally for you. You are the win of my game.

            Living is writing, and all writing is a braiding of voices. What is any block but writer’s block, and our body the pen of life? Life is a play of language, congestions, and flows of force and words.

            We set up these blocks to build pressure, to incite inescapable strains. Genius is only genius because it needed to be. The child who is simply and readily loved, who easily gained what he wished for, would never feel the necessity of genius, the direct course, the direct path of genius, possible only when the rest of the world is bent.

            Deadlocks, gridlocks, impasses, frustrations, desires for the impossible, set the stage for fantastic creations, for art and words nowhere before conceived, with elements that could only fuse under incredible pressure. A long belabored frustration is the best gestation. The final release, the orgasmic melding of ideas, to have those melds, those epiphanies, the dancing to muse song, is the highest joy possible to man, higher than sex or romance or any other breast-heaving bliss. This is self creation. Through the creation of a careful, minute, eloquent langauge, we knit our very soul, knit it eternal. Without writer’s block, none of this would be possible.




\~ @M@ ~/



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