To write again

I miss the time when my pen would touch the paper and just run with its own strange effort, at its own pace, as if some knowledge of me was fundamentally laid into its ink, some knowledge I didn’t have, but the pen did. I miss the time when I didn’t write poetry... when poetry wrote me. It wrote my life, because my life was reasonably paced, paced well enough for my thoughts to have the time to settle at the tip on the pen, without me noticing, just to fill the white sheets in front of me at the very first breath of creative air, to my own surprise, to my relief, to my happiness. Life has become so jammed with things. Is it a matter or progress, growing up, or both? Where did they go, all of the creative bits that used to flood my head? They are still alive when I dream, but seem to dissolve every morning. They disappear under the weight of all the burdens I work so hard to multiply daily. They get hushed down by the buzz of life.

Image credit: duchesse-2-Guermante
Listening to Weeping by Josh Groban and Vusi Mahlasela

Letting your art roam free?

I am convinced more and more that words have a life of their own. They have alert minds, unique personalities and quite a rebellious nature, always plotting the most intricate ways of surprising their carriers.

The last poem in its final form (never really final through my lenses) contains only about 20 percent of the words or ideas with which I started. They become so independent once I let that first wave hit, that at certain points I feel little control over them. They develop – some to bloom and some to whither – all in their own ways, and I only add a stroke of a pen here and there to guide the lost sheep of the group; to direct them back when they wander too far off the edge of the paper. It’s as if they know what’s on my mind and they know where I’d like them to go, but they choose their distinctive paths toward that destination. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes they grow strong enough to change the destination itself, and I let them.

I have asked a couple of friends who paint about their creative process, and it seems amazingly similar. They start with a basic idea and then they let the art take its own course. I am yet to ask my friends who compose music. You know who you are!

Then again, maybe it is similar precisely because we are friends (or we are friends because we have similar spirits, whichever comes first, you get the point). Maybe other people do it differently. Do you normally know exactly what you are about to create?

On blogging

"Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time... The wait is simply too long."

 ~ Leonard Bernstein

You might have noticed I rarely step out of my creative writing shoes and post in any other way. It comes from trying to be consistent with one style, or be true to this blog. But then again you might have noticed I was gone for quite some time, and that definitely overwrites “being true to this blog” argument. So I wanted to put the style on pause, long enough to apologize to those of you who read the blog. I’ve been traveling, changing jobs, moving and I’m preparing to move again, and most importantly, I’ve been trying to leave some emotional baggage behind. I’ve been succeeding on some days and failing disastrously on others.

I’ve also had difficulties putting all of the above on paper, no matter how hard I tried. I keep going though a growing pile of drafts and nothing seems good enough. So I figured I’d just get over my editorial self and post whatever I have. Maybe once I’m though this rough patch, the words will start coming easier. In fact, as I was polishing today’s (way inadequate! – yells that annoying little censor in my head) post, I was suddenly flooded with ideas and jotted a lot of things down, which made for a creatively satisfying day. Again, sorry for being off the radar and – since you are still reading this :) – thanks for sticking with me.

Special thanks goes to Monique for her "I’m Just Going To Delete My Blog and Not Tell Anyone" post. It totally brought me back to reality. Blogging reality, that is :) Many news posts coming soon!

Love, peace & hope from me to you.

♥ ~ Jules

A little lost

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket - safe, dark, motionless, airless - it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell."

~ C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

How do people say things as pretty? Can I do that... please? Sometimes I think my words sit under this huge rock in the sea that is my thoughts, ideas, feelings and desires. The category five storm needs to happen for them to be thrown out to the surface, spit out by the waters that are too dark otherwise to tell where the sunshine ends and the abyss begins.

Sometimes I think lack of pain kills inspiration. Sometimes I think pain overdose does it too. I find chapters of comedy and tragedy as I try to frantically skip any prosaic pages in life. Slowing down seems to be a sure motivation killer so I run fast, and bump into walls, and get hurt, and get up again, and keep running, and bump into walls...

I jump between extreme thirst for social life and desperate need for solitude. I think we give up part of our freedom the moment we choose to depend on others, be it for attention, time, means to survive, understanding, kindness, affection... But then, if others choose to depend on us, do we fill that gap with some of their freedom? What right does anyone have for anyone else's freedom? Being part of society automatically means being, in one way or another, unfree. Being absolutely free then... means being unsocial? And then there is solitude, which takes away the freedom to be loved.

The only true way to be free as I found it is to be free within. It is that type of freedom that I seek out and fight for and worship.

* * *

As I get tired of this buzzing world I take a stroll to the land of no emotion, but I get too restless on my way there to ever reach the illusionary destination of absolute personal strength. Few days into my "independence" I feel the prose of reality crawling at me like a giant heat wave, leaving no air to breathe, no shade to escape to on the surface so hot it melts dreams.

That’s when I take a big breath and dive deep into my poetry, finding there the only relief and a place of safety.

Sometimes answers are hidden in words. More often, words bring out more questions. Sometimes I wish I had words when none come out. At other times I wish I could just stay silent for hours... days. I think good words are hard to get and it probably only adds to their beauty. Then there are angry words and words that are empty, and I haven’t decided yet which one is worse.

* * *

"Why don’t you go blog about it?" I heard last weekend, and thrown into the heat of an argument, it was meant to sound offensive. I'm afraid "it" just doesn't do it for me, my dear boy. Hey, look who’s stronger now. I am on one of those freedom strolls and you’d better not get in my way. I don’t mean to sound amazon-ish but then again, I am so tired of fighting you. We’ve been barking at each other for so long, it started taking a shape of some sick entertainment. Another round, and we might as well start taking bets. At times, it boiled blood. At this point, it tires me. I am not meant for hatred, I don’t like harsh words given or taken, even if, especially if, they are empty shells thrown one's way to offend rather than convey meaning. I am no angel but let me dwell on it some other time. How are YOU going to find your way through such darkness into which you let your thinking wander, such anger with which you let it out? You can’t make a real difference, you can’t right the wrong if you fail or refuse (which is it?) to draw the line between passion and fury. You can’t be truly kind nor loving when you let your pride guide you, wherever it is you are heading.

You look, I die

I can write a pile of sentences, reread them and don’t find myself. They are often not good enough. They lack the strength to dig deep, take it out and spill it on paper. Bleeding heart calls for writing in blood and all I see is black ink on a dull white paper. Nonsense. Friday was good and I even believed I was getting better. And then came Saturday. You looked. I died. Again.

I want to take you off
Like summer hat in fall
Throw off your arms like gloves
That wouldn’t keep me warm
No more
Shake drops of voice
Out of my ears
Soaked in the cold
Of ruthless storms
Your words
Wipe off that touch
Out of the creases
Of my palm
You stick to me
Cling to my thinking
Roll down the spine
With drops of sweat
Making me shiver
In aching dreams
Can’t loving die
So I can live
Instead
Wait not just yet
Resists the heart
In which small room
Is filled with charcoals
Blue and orange
And amber
Like your world
I throw them in the fire
Where your ice
Is melted
Your picture out of the corner
Looks into me
I read a smile
In picture’s eyes
Half-closed
Half-opened
Hate never came
Into this room
It never will
My eyes meet yours
Half-closed
Half-opened
Was ever love
Inside your look
Did I misread it
Did I
Just throw your picture in the fire
My shaking hands
Are burnt
But it won’t burn
I cover it with charcoals
They turn to flowers
You still look
Right back into me
Your eyes
Half-closed
Half-opened
Your soul
Half-naked
Half... I’ll never know
And of that look
I die.

Thanks!!!

I just wanted to thank someone from EatonWeb who took the time to look at my blog and write this review. I know it’s just a couple of sentences but they mean so much to me! Thanks EatonWeb!!!

Click here to check it out

Naked

You finding my blog felt a bit like finding myself naked in the middle of the street. I told you I wouldn’t be mad and I’ll stick to my word, although emotions do boil in me every now and then when I think about it. I guess it’s not so much the fact that you read it — anyone in the world can see it after all — it’s about how you found it, it was a bit shady to look around my computer, don’t you think? Then again, I’d probably do the same in that situation so I am not sure if I am even allowed to be mad at you. I always thought I was the sneaky one, I didn’t expect that from you. Next time you want to know something, ask me nicely and I might as well tell you.

It was nice of you to show appreciation for my writing.
I truly appreciate your art too, and I hope you know it.

Still, you shouldn’t do things behind my back.
I should clear my browser history more often.

Finding comfort in writing

My life took several unexpected turns recently and I really felt like writing. Yet every time I sat down in front of my laptop, the screen disappeared behind my tears and the immense pain I felt didn't seem to be willing to leave me in the form of words.

It has been a month now although it seems to have happened in a course of just one night, a single nightmare that sent me rolling down the slope of emotions. I haven't been able to stop yet, unable to control my fears, my pain… my life.

You showed up at my door one night to break my heart. In those several words I heard you breaking everything good that we had, crushing our past and our future, pouring a bucket of icy water into the fire of those six short passionate months together that seemed like eternity. That fire was us, and we burned out too quickly.

You came back next day yet I couldn't forgive you. You lost your feelings somewhere along the way and there was no sense to try to mend a tie that was now so weak. I put my ruthless mask on and pushed you away. We both knew it was the right thing to do, and we both still know it.

I didn't realize letting you go from my heart wouldn't be as easy as closing the door behind you. I was strong the first several days because I was mad at you, and determined to stay strong. But days later, my world started falling apart. I tried replacing you with work, taking on more than I could ever handle, with books that I couldn't concentrate on behind the thoughts of you, with friends in whose circle I would end up drunk, getting back home in tears. I watched movies without paying attention to the plot, I listened to the news on the radio and all I could think about was that I wouldn't be able to discuss them with you. Our engaging conversations seem to be the thing that I miss the most, and I'm sure we'll still have those as friends. But then, why does it hurt so bad?

I am trying to let go of my pain today, releasing it through the tips of my fingers, watching it roll gently on the screen, trying to leave it there. I am hoping that the ability to write again is a sign that my heart is starting to recover. Maybe just a little, one step at a time, I will let my demons go.