the joy of writing, of sex, of bread, of earth – joy in different measures. in pursuit of joy. the effortless acceptance of joy falling through the skylight. these thoughts barely making it to the page versus the desire to grandly translate. write something about the overall struggle-of-life. trying to articulate the heart of the struggle is a lifelong pang and growing pain. simply try harder and be honest. both honesty and dishonesty seep even into the most unassuming article of clothing about you, so why not be different, absolutely yourself? the joy of writing is punching the pattering sounds pitching the ball mauling the long haul tampering flattening ironing out the finest inklings into potentialities. haiku, senryu. scratching at the word pad, peering at the dictionary, the gate is open for the rain to inundate. that is, the joy of creativity is inviting. writing about writing. the mind is a creator god. so have faith.
remember the middle of night blues with asthma jam sessions, the word pads? getting up with the nagging wheeze and smack at the keys? that was me. how could I forget? I’d discuss the baggage of life. I’d offer advice. like I knew better. or not better, but finally got it. I get it. do you get it? get it yet? does it fall through the skylight? does it translate right, tangibly? “IT” – the needle believed to be at the haystack center when actually taped along the side.
the joy comes when the struggling subsides.
before, life was stalling, as it tends to do. fingernail snags along the way. others just don’t know get it, what it is, so they joke and sling terms to pass the time like “tree hugger” and “hippy” while we say squares at water coolers and car-salesmen-like folk are damned to cubicles to think in boxes and represent the dullest ideas known to man. they talk a game but ignorance puts them in their place and are denied a richness of experience. smugness is the disqualifier.
no shame for the damage caused, they’re more concerned with fashion crimes… their crime is that they’re fucking dull and without joy. lacking the potential for anything meaningful forever or for far too long and remaining the same as they are without salt and grit, seeking entertainment blandly as a way to purchase opinions so to have something to talk about, filling empty time – they fill the roads up, fill the malls, slowly start to realize they shouldn’t’ve supported these wars based on lies, after it’s too late.
everything got all fucked up. everything smoothed out. I think I’m happier. I’ve been rebuilding. I wanna be brutally honest, the kind not to pull punches, letting it fly, struggling less against the immovable, then moving the immovable. take it or leave it. translation/transaction. satisfaction from anger is of the most fleeting, bleeding out.
it is about my joy and your joy and the planet which sustains joy and delivers joy in new formats. the syntax, the craft, the pad, is not passing fad. this is it. you get it? abstract.
so I come here and write every day. my teachers are far and wide. me and mine, we are people watchers and rememberers, sponges, philanthropists, activists, humanitarians, vegetarians, vegans, anarchists, artists, great cooks, skeptics, agnostics, atheists, gardeners, bikers, prose/poem crafters, bird watchers, spiritual people. we live in a giant blender.
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