exercise: Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.
note: i write with a pen and paper and then transcribe. i tried to stay as true as possible to the handwritten “formatting.”
here i go freewriting, freefalling onto the page—it’s that before before opening the net and knowing that the ‘chute will guide you safely to the ground. my mind thinks faster than my hand moves ~there~ i’m already onto the next thing when all i want to do is be right here.
*pain* it takes me a long time to make the littlest marks—if i slow down even more and think less do i still achieve the freedom without the stress? do i achieve a sense of stillness?
that sense just popped in there that maybe it was a sens-or, sensory overload is a little bit what this feels like.
though i freewrite everyday somehow it took me awhile to get to this. maybe it’s the act of knowing—that we are being observed or the potential for judgment that is the stopper in the flow of the wine of creativity.
i go back to another thought which is:
I am tired of myself.
okay, that’s not true. but i do wonder how important it is for me to be writing about me all the time. it’s in my poetry—it’s everywhere: ME. am i all that there is? if i’m not separate from anyone else, is it interesting? does it make me self-absorbed? what if i do it to teach me, reveal to me, something about me?
then isn’t it something for all of us?
Richard says, “You do this thing where you try to make your poems about others. Keep it personal.”
“But I’m sick of myself!”
isn’t it more fun to imagine fictional “me’s” out there on fantastical voyages?
what if life IS a fantastical voyage? why try to make anything up?
and yet, isn’t it our game? (there i go making it about us again.) but isn’t it our game? to try to run away, to escape ourselves as if we are not everywhere and everything just calmly sitting and asking us to acknowledge the us that we know is already there?
is it the pain of existence? of always pushing to be more, to go faster, to have things be a certain way. hearing something and then thinking “oh yeah, i already knew that/do that/am that/that.”
and then this idea of what THAT’s like—when really, we have no idea. because if we really knew—we wouldn’t be trying to do anything in the first place.
why can’t i italicize my handwriting. why can’t i do what can be done with this body? or can i?
is it self-limiting to think there’s anything more to it than simply being? why isn’t it enough?
i get the humor in the fact that i can’t stop writing about myself and now i want to i-talicize everything.
slow down a little. i’m counting fake minutes that don’t actually exist. seeing this through means seeing through this illusion of time and space and being and doing and perhaps most importantly taking ourselves too seriously. there i go wanting to format again.
but i let it go—choose another path. my pen runs thin and my hand slows down and somehow my spirit lifts up and out and i start to understand that i am going to know the exact moment when i am supposed to look up at see that everything is perfect. i don’t have to get sucked into all the self-aggrandizing—i’m not even sure what that means but it’s fine because i don’t need it.
i can be happy anywhere and so i choose to be it, right here, where i am, wherever that may be. all of a sudden i know why people write to be free.
i jumped a little too soon, but only slightly. i still have some time to fall before my ‘chute opens up and we are gliding from above. i can see exactly where and when i am supposed to land and i do it while running, maybe not running, but moving with the momentum, letting it take me to a place of freedom.