Concerning Temptation

I don't have a go-to way to procrastinate that isn't productive anymore. I just have to write or read or do something worthwhile, instead of posting a status update about how bored I am, I like it. I also like that nobody can find me with ease anymore, if someone wants to talk to me, or vice versa, it takes a little more effort. I am enjoying a facebook free existance. Who knew that humanity would ever encounter this problem? I don't want to rely so heavily on technology anymore. I want to be able to disconnect at any time, so I have more time to think. I talked to people I didn't know on the bus today, which was interesting. It beat the heck out of staring at my phone the whole time. I think this is a step in the right direction.

Disconnect to Engage

Tonight was good. I climbed a really tall ladder and discovered an advantageously placed window. I'm really tired now though, so I think I will go to sleep. I deactivated my facebook, at long last. I am quite proud of that accomplishment, though I keep having the temptation to go on there. It was just the logical thing to do. It was keeping me from forging real connections with people, and generally overloading me with useless and irrelevant information. I feel confident in my decision. I also feel sleepy. Adieu.

Melatonin

I can't sleep, so I lay here on this old futon, staring at the wall, consider going for a walk, decide against it, and continue staring at the wall. A typical progression. What can I do about it? Very little I suppose. Neil Simon and Art Garfunkel are singing to me about how they are so tired, but I'm not taking a hint. So I lay here, letting my mind wander. If I wasn't alone I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway, but the thought crosses my mind. It doesn't matter either way, I'd still be awake when I ought to be asleep. So, stream of consciousness... as fast as I can type...

Milo and Otis was and is a fantastic film. Mrs. Robinson is sort of a creepy song when you think about it. I wonder if I would think about different things if I didn't have music on? I like that bass pattern. That guitar intro makes me think of summertime. Boom boom bass drum kicking. I'd like to take a train across the country. It would be neat to have a song written about me someday. Celicia was a bit loose from what I gather. What is that instrument? I am glad there are leaves on the trees again, the sun looks so pretty on them in the morning, and they bustle about so perfectly in the wind. Did I eat dinner? Nope. Shoot. Oh well, I think I'll be fine, I feel fine. I wish I was better at punching. Should I ride my bike to work tomorrow? That would be nice. My shoulders are tense. Maybe if I wiggle them like that... No, not really. I wonder what everyone at Evergreen was like before college?

That's enough. I feel like Faulkner now. Not sure if I'm pleased about that?

Cultivating Superstitions

Casually strolling down the ramp toward the waiting plane, I make a habit of touching the craft before I board, willing it to soar safely. Useless superstition, but it comforts me. Limitless others possess similar and drastically different superstitions about flying, and it's obvious that my particular method is shared by many, as the metal shows through in a worn way next to the rivets by the door. Turbulence is a troubling thing, it shakes men in ties and women with infants to the core, their nerves growing fragile. I shuffle down the aisle, flying coach; they've put me in the nosebleeds again, where is the emergency exit? Vacantly staring out the window, the man in the seat next to me with a briefcase on his lap turns to acknowledge my arrival. Awkward. This is going to be a long flight, I expect no conversation, as I have no interest in the stock market and he has no interest in daisy chains and salt water taffy, at least none that he would venture to admit. I lift my lone bag into the overhead, pushing it toward the back. Not a word, just a look, I clutch my book, buckle the safety belt. Gate is left, safety routine demonstrated, the tough tattooed man diagonal to me watches a romantic comedy, 'He's Just Not That Into You', I chuckle inwardly.

Vertically soaring, earth below, I crane my neck to look out the window, marveling at the cloud kingdom. Old woman in the seat across the aisle coughs gingerly, the recirculated air swirling her lungs. I try to hold my breath for awhile, hoping my ear drums will pop. Courtesy beverages are distributed, and a complimentary breakfast of cornflakes and a muffin that is sweeter than ought be legal. Everything goes according to plan, we land safely in Texas, I've never been to Texas before, it's hot and everything has doubled in size.

Concerning Nutrients

Commandeering the text is all too common in the editing process; the intent of the author too often betrayed by the intent of the reader. Despite good intentions, we all have an agenda, a perspective, a bias, and if we aren't careful it looms darkly like a great grey cloud over a beautiful rolling idea. I too am guilty of casting this shadow. My efforts at altruistic editing in the past have been colored by my own will to inflict perfect syntax and grammar on the world. How can I change this habit?
Understanding that the real point of editing is not actually to edit, to change, or to transform, but to inspire and contribute in a non-intrusive manner is vital. It's a delicate matter, achieving the balance between bias and cultivation. The beautiful thing about it is, it's a lot like cultivating vegetables, you merely water and provide nutrients. Though, in the case of cultivating a creative process, the water and nutrients are replaced by ideas, suggestions, new insights, different perspectives.
Letting things grow organically in a creative process is difficult sometimes. Like when you were young, and you planted a seed in a small terra cotta pot, your efforts at willing it to germinate on the sunny windowsill with only your eyes and encouraging words were futile, it would happen in due time, and hopefully you would become distracted at some point along the way, lest you wished to stare at potting soil for days on end. You have to remove yourself from the process as much as humanly possible. This can be achieved by listening, rather than waiting to speak, hearing the concerns and intentions of the author, acknowledging them, connecting with them, understanding them.
This is not an easy assignment, to detach your opinions and wants from the process. The author often knows the solutions they are looking for when they sit down, they just need to consciously recognize them. But sometimes something novel can be contributed, something unexpected yet strangely destined. This novel idea should not betray the intent of the writer, but compliment it. Relate to the writer, get to know them a little, understand their perspective, if only from the narrow area that makes up the soles of your shoes. Don't miser-ate watching the ideas sprout, enjoy the fleeting period of mindful growth.
If you like, think of the work as a living thing, a plant? The water, sunlight, and nutrients in the soil are ideas and experiences, little pieces of knowledge that fit the form of the work perfectly. The seed is planted; the assignment is given, the notion to create is pursued. The soil consists of the author's perspective. Water and sunlight serve to nourish the seed; ideas feed into the work. Watch it grow in passing, it will happen naturally, just water, and expose to light, as the seed will not grow in darkness, the work will not grow alone and isolated from outside perspectives, it will remain static. Words are like all growing things, they need to see the light, they need to be fed a healthy diet of ideas and experiences, or they will wilt into insignificance, if only in the mind of the writer.
How can the reader avoid being the dark gray cloud that keeps the sun from the work? How can the writer bring the work into the light of day without fear of judgment? That is our struggle. We must read mindfully, in the moment, nonjudgmentally. We must be conscious of our bias, in order to keep it from overshadowing the intentions of the work. We must remember to become distracted enough to allow the work to grow. We must work to cultivate consciousness.

Cultivating Consciousness

Cultivating consciousness;
Ultimate empowerment,
Lines erased,
Time infinite.
In the moment
Venturing the gap
Attaining the goal.
The captain yells,
"Ignition!"
Nothing left behind
Gratuitous movement of mind.

Voices sing out
Oratorical melodies,
Injustices of the soul
Creating something.
Entropy is matter diverging back into mind.

Dean Martin

Everything makes sense now. I feel like a massive weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. Life is good. I am finally comfortable being alone. Not to say that I don't seek company, I do, but I don't need it, it's not necessary to my survival anymore. I can connect with people, love them, but with the mutual understanding that it's nothing more than mutual connection and honest love. I can say anything, they can say anything, and there is no judgement. It's not going anywhere, it just is, and that is exactly the way it is supposed to be.