Thursday, April 10, 2014

Creative Dissonance

'Fighting intuition creates creative dissonance.'


If writing is a slog, and something in your work doesn't feel right, it's because something isn't right. Your unconscious self intuits this at a deep level. It identifies a problem, perhaps even the solution, and attempts to apply the brakes. Your conscious mind, however, wants to work its will. It had a plan, sees the end in sight, and so it persists. This causes creative dissonance.

We stare at the page, stuck between scenes, unsure of our footing. Words refuse to come. Most people call this a block, but I've begun to see this block not a barrier, but a blessing. It is a sign or a wake-up call to challenge our assumptions; to pay attention to the deeper self that knows the way. Good art is less an act of will than it is an act of submission.

Word of the Day

Sensuist: One who delights in the senses.

Not to be confused with Sensualist, someone devoted to physical pleasure (esp. sexual), though there is certainly overlap.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

By Dylan Thomas


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

I Want to See You By Rumi

I want to see you.

Know your voice.

Recognize you when you
first come 'round the corner.

Sense your scent when I come
into a room you've just left.

Know the lift of your heel,
the glide of your foot.

Become familiar with the way
you purse your lips
then let them part,
just the slightest bit,
when I lean in to your space
and kiss you.

I want to know the joy
of how you whisper
"more”

Friday, January 17, 2014

Desert Places By Robert Frost

Desert Places

By Robert Frost


Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it - it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less -
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
WIth no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

Bright Star By John Keats

Bright Star

By John Keats


Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
        Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
        Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
        Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
        Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
        Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
        Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

A Dream Within a Dream

By Edgar Allan Poe


Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?