Refocus
I kept opening the doors and finding dead ends. That’s how I played it all out in my head. I realize now I never opened any doors, for I had kept them all shut.
A blurry camera does not take good pictures. But, we don’t call cameras blurry; we call pictures blurry.
I was always the one who made the work, but the work was itself.
I wrote a word on the wall. I wrote another word on the wall. In a few moments, I had my sentence. “I am about to open this door,” said the sentence. Paradoxically, I stared at the sentence I had created.
The sentence was not a lie. So long as it was constantly reread, the about-to-ness was renewed, and so I could reread forever that sentence which I had writ.
That sentence was not blurry. It was crisp to the edges and fully legible.
October 18, 2009 at 8:59 pm | Reflections | No comments
One Sitting
Start now, it says
Start now, not later.
I will start.
And I do.
And I still do.
And I keep do.
And I watch my watch,
Finally.
No worries, it lies,
The will is timeless.
Tomorrow I will start.
Tomorrow I do.
Tomorrow I don’t.
October 15, 2009 at 8:18 pm | Poetry | No comments
To Play With Words
To play with Words
is to never be bored,
to always have many friends,
friends who
You do not know,
not fully,
not surely.
explore, explore,
ask away,
spend the day
with Old Friends,
friends who never told
all they could do.
October 11, 2009 at 12:32 pm | Poetry | No comments
What’s that word? Ahh… Diction.
I have before said to myself, “The definition of a word is an average of all its contexts, weighted by usage frequency.” It has been about a year since I first made this proclamation and I have yet to find reason to retract it.
Multiple definitions arise when averages float around various peaks. The evolution of language can be attributed to changes in the use of words. An author creates a new word through his influence by inserting it into a context. It is from observation that one realizes the dictionary is only a field guide to the organisms which are words, constantly adapting themselves to specific contexts and changing in character over time.
A context is a created by a combination of words. Just as in an ecosystem, each individual word works with the others to create the whole, and each word finds itself a niche, a place to fit in. As most of the words used in English today are already well adapted to certain contexts, a writer searches for the best fit. The writer must evaluate the value of its candidates, a task which may either involve scrutinizing the pages of a thesaurus or completing a cursory scan of a few preset options.
It is when a niche is left unfilled that a writer goes in search of a perfect word, but when all in unsatisfactory, a word may be adapted to fit into the context required of it. However, if a word is too far from fit for a context, it breaks the sentence by changing its meaning. A daring author, though, may choose to simply create a new word, fresh in its first context with a perfectly molded definition for its initial niche. All who speak or write, thus, influence a language through their word choices.
And it is such that diction–or word choice–is considered one of the most important components of writing. It is such that in everyday life, people might pause to recall that perfect word. Words work together amongst each other to fit, and meaning is created. Diction is an ongoing vote for both the future of language and the message of a moment’s writing.
August 27, 2009 at 9:18 pm | Reflections | No comments
For the Love of Autobiography
To write of past experiences in life is to strive to recollect those little beads of memory so as to string them into a necklace, idealized and molded to perfection beyond their first reception. Liquids are known for taking the shape of their container, and it is thus that these beads of memories are like dew droplets, lingering from the day before yet fragile to reshaping by the merest of touches.
There is an enchantment to collect them for their rare inspiring beauty, but if they must be reshaped by touch, it is then that the speaker’s job is to be deft and let an elegant grasp form these beads into a container worthy of their worth. Henceforth, these beads are strung into a necklace to tell a story, ongoing and personable of humanity.
In now that I speak, I recall the times I wrote of memory and know all too well that like the dew drop beads shaped by a writer’s hand, I fool myself to remember that which is more magical in essence. It is by this means that tact prevails, but it is also by this that what was born the eloquence of life becomes literature–or some combination of honesty, insight, and fascination at the past.
The autobiography is a magnificent form where the author adopts a pseudo-fictitious persona to judge and reflect upon his own life. Unlike the biography, objectiveness is a far-come goal, which only serves to heighten the depth of revelation at all truth in life. It is upon reading, writing, and appreciating the autobiography that the essence of all literature–in its power to give depth to existence–becomes clear. All literature is to some extent autobiographical as the experiences of its authors peak through.
So then if I were to choose to idly pass my time, I would dress my white pages in my own necklace of dewdrops though malformed the beads may be. My fashion is the pen as I experience the journey of the autobiography, giving facet to all loquacious squalor through the endless footage that is my own life. I will embrace this joy that my ink trails dare to embrace upon this article, and know well, the heart of reflection.
August 26, 2009 at 10:10 pm | Reflections | No comments
Inspiration
I had an epiphany today,
So suddenly I see,
Gifts of perception, giving way.
My edges are gone
and tree by tree
Leaves level to splatters
On this Monet sky.
Horizon is but a word,
Faded in memory,
for green becoming of blue,
and blue gorging on green.
Meaning is a cirrus-thin cloud,
Escaping reach yet
Ever so sweet; Let it flow
and squint your eyes.
To see like a blind man
Who still knows a blur
Is to understand the
Beauty of color. Neglected,
When from this world,
We found form.
If upon my own,
Of this canvased foresight
I tell. It is with
The vivid and livid, colors
I spill.
In leaves of paint splatter I say,
“I had an epiphany today…”
August 25, 2009 at 8:35 pm | Poetry | No comments
Urges
Must… Write
I’ve always wondered how the demographics of the world might respond to a poll or survey about the urge to write. I could envision the questions on a questionnaire, but I can’t quite envision the situation in which the questionnaire would be given. I may have been ill aware that such a poll or survey has already been conducted, but I tend to go along wondering evermore.
The urge to write, or perhaps the urge to simply create anything, is an interesting one although I may not be cohering to the wholest of truths in this statement as I make no comparison to the other urges of the world. All I know is that the urge to write is a sudden one, stimulated by realizations, books, conversations, or anything that could be inspiring.
And, in the sudden event of the overwhelming urge, there is a simple fleeting moment when it’s all clear, and the poetic or clear descriptions fly through the mind. There is that moment when inspiration strikes, and the thoughts will spin with “Must… Write” until…
It all ends before the pen is ever lifted. The urge to write lingers, the descriptions that felt so right deteriorated, and it wasn’t because of an over-extended blink.
Moments Past
In my personal experience with this urge to write, I find that although inspiration may be fleeting, the urge to write is not. This urge starts in a sudden moment, but it is not like a great enlightenment unless it was started by a great enlightenment. The idea lingers in the mind, and the thought may or may not be nourished.
Even moments past the time of inspiration, even days past, I find myself considering the words to write to a short little article. The words are woven together in the way that seems perfect, and yet the words shift with each mental rerun. All through the moments that pass, beyond the point of inspiration, the pen is never touched, and the idea remains in its little eggshell, waiting for the right moment to hatch. But, the urge remains an urge until it has been thought out so much that the mind becomes content and forgets the urge. The hatchling that was to be emerged only as an idealization of the creature within.
Perhaps, this is only the effect of laziness, but I’ve always thought it curious that thoughts of writing could compensate for actual writing, that the idealized image of the hatchling that never was could compensate for the live thing. Perhaps, these are the very writings that are not necessarily to be made to be read but rather written to be written, for the sake of writing and the love of sheerly meshing words together. Thus, to merely mentally construct these writings unintended for an audience would be satiation enough for the act of thinking the words through is little less than the act of laying the thoughts into concrete symbols and letters.
Moments Remembered
But when the moments are long spun into the past, those urges to write are not forgotten, and the thoughts remained archived. The exact descriptions and sentences envisioned are lost, and it is those I wish I had recorded. I can only remember how perfect those words seemed in those moments like a parent remembers the perfection of a deceased child.
But then, I reflect upon those urges to write much like in this article. I wonder… Was I just exploring a world of clichés all along? Clichés were the words that seemed to fit. Was I just wasting my time in never writing but always thinking of things to write? Alas, if I were to affirm, I discover that this ‘waste’ becomes inevitable and that in questioning it, I further it.
I remember things. I decide that I should keep a notebook handy, but I cannot bring myself to record. Lost in a world of writing in thought, I must write yet I will not, so I let the moments pass with no regrets.
I’ve always wondered how many people would read this article and nod their heads in response to each little step of this recurring cycle of wanting to write that feels so meaningful. I’ve always wondered how many people would check yes in that questionnaire I envision, the one that asked “Have you ever written without lifting the pen?” I’ve always glanced towards those who suddenly lose themselves in a world of thought, wondering if they are hit by a similar phenomenon.
I think us trivial thinkers are all writers in our little world of observations and thoughts from observation. The urge to write never lifts the pen because in the scheme of things, it is the urge to consider.
November 9, 2008 at 9:34 pm | Reflections | No comments
Meaningful
If I Told You So…
If I said that in this world, the birds are sometimes blue, would you try to find meaning in what I said? Would you assume that it was a metaphor of some sort?
The manner of the statement makes little difference, but it is a random statement that might possibly sound like it could be a metaphor of some sort. There was no meaning intended, but a person who read the statement might try to decipher it.
But, that doesn’t necessarily mean the statement is meaningless, just that the author did not intend for the statement to have any particular meaning. The reader has the power to create meaning for the statement, and this power is amplified by the obscurity of the statement.
Intentions
In writing, it is commonly advised to know of your audience and purpose beforehand. This is essentially true in any situation involving communication to the masses. When a person gives a speech, a degree of clarity is expected. We hear speeches that arouse emotions, promote ideas, or inform of the world’s happenings. We do not, however, often hear of a person rising to the podium to say “In this world, the birds are sometimes blue” unless the speaker beforehand had alluded of a metaphor relating to either birds or the color blue.
When a person writes, he or she becomes an author. He or she is in a state in which he or she must discern among words and choose combination of words to become statements. A person can write like an artisan who may choose a more poetic, freeflowing cache of words, or a person could write like a mathematician who coherently leads each conclusion into the next. It’s all a matter of choosing a style that suits the purpose.
An author is a communicator, and an author who is not might just be a rambler. As a communicator, the author’s purpose is to guide the reader into the purpose of the writing. By being clear, the author maintains control over the communication; the reader becomes restricted in his or her ability to mentally manipulate the meanings of the words. The author’s meaning is clear, so the minds of those who read follow along each point. Even in poetry, the meaning is channeled into coherence so that a poem may become more than just simply flowing words.
Thus we discover Writing 101. Clarity means points that embed themselves into the minds of the readers you sway. Clarity means turning the science into less than a superficial magic of the world. Clarity is efficient, and clarity is for a practical world.
November 9, 2008 at 9:26 pm | Reflections | No comments