I wonder if there is anything more terrifying than a blank page...or a promise, or a commitment, to fill it....
I will never understand what has made me a spectator in my own play, ridden by a desire to have it all without sacrificing ambiguity--perhaps the final act is my admission that what I envision has always greater power, depth, clarity, passion, magnitude, than any feeble effort to enchain it in words...how shallow I seem in my effort to transcend myself...
Madeleine L'Engle has reaffirmed for me what I have always known--that one is grasped by the work, which is greater than one's Self...perhaps my predominant punctuation mark is the ellipsis because I don't believe, really, that there is finality to anything...especially creative thought...
I am stultifying in an atmosphere of intellectual richness--starving in a garden, for I have forgotten to heed the admonition, "Take, eat"...I have forgotten the importance of feeding my own fires, as I have abandoned the richness of self-immolation in pure thought...all who draw from me draw out what is there, which I have forgotten to replenish...
I promise myself to read, to write, to pray--every night, just for me--there is no obstacle of life which I cannot overcome with the force of my own personality--if I still possess that force...Let me not to the growth of my own mind erect impediments...
I wonder if "the force which through the green fuse drives the flower" is my own creative energy, or my hookup to some vast cosmic consciousness...Is there an Oversoul--am I a transcendentalist--will I ever know, or would one be able to ask a question like that unless one were one of them....?
I have never succeeded in convincing myself of the worth of my own philosophical ramblings, but have always refused to believe those who have told me I should publish...fear has caused my inertia, as I do not feel what feeble talent I possess can possibly meet the needs of the gods with money and printing presses.
All I write is so real and such deep feeling...I find I never truly put pen to paper unless I hurt too much not to...how can I face the exposure and rejection of my spirit..."most people don't want a piece of your soul", a critic once told me, but a writer has nothing else to offer, no other way to communicate with the ultimate reality of existence.
I am too honest not to be vulnerable, too candid not to be shortsighted, too forthright for self-protection--it is uncomfortable to be an idealist, but other ways smack to me of compromise--I cannot cure myself of the lucent reaction to the phenomenon of existence...
My different drummer throws me out of step with reality, but I love his music....and somewhere inside whatever there is of wholeness in me is this determination to suffer it all, live it all, breathe it all, never give up or give in or be bored or get old or stop trying or settle...for anything....I know now that moderation is not my path, nor is wisdom of the sensible sort, for I will not be still and I would rather burn out than rust out...
The world is not as it should be, and it's much more wonderful than we know--and a writer must proclaim both points of view, in the face of indifference, at great personal risk, and both at once if possible...Ferlinghetti's "absurdity" is a necessary component of "taut truth", because Reality is not true, and much that is not real is very True, and much that is not Real is all too true...It is this absurdity which the writer must face squarely any time s/he attempts to make existence coherent...
Perhaps the most damning thing that can be said about anything is that "it really makes sense"...for we often abandon passion and intelligence for competence and commonsense---never--no, forget the middle road of safety; I need to burn and scintillate and push and grow and coruscate and care...I hope...
Is there any reason why we only use 3 to 10 per cent of our brain capacity? Is it not that there is some sort of a synapse--an automatic shutdown valve--which prevents us from giving all of ourselves to anything, "Lest we be as gods, knowing both good and evil"...lest we hear with our ears and understand with our hearts and be converted and healed...
What frightens us so much about the nakedness of Eden--why do we not know that wholeness is holiness--why can we not see that what we think of as our own imperfection is the glory of God, for he made us human and fallible and, being God, could have done otherwise...was it Twain or Lincoln who said, "The Lord must love plain folks, he made so many of 'em"? Is it not enough for us to glory in being plain folks--because what we call "plain" is infinite richness and variety**--and there is a tawdry sameness about the roads we take to make ourselves unique...when we hurt, we hunger for home food, and warmth and love---shouldn't that tell us something basic about the emptiness of elegance...?
Maybe I AM a transcendentalist, after all.....
__________
Written in my journal, January 22, 1983
*interpolation when copying, not part of the original* There is a lesson here for the creator, of writing, of anything....do not make a thing which is intended to only use part of its capacity and never understand nor achieve how to use the whole of it...for doing any less than the best you yourself can do, and failing to give your whole self, and ITS whole self, to the body of your creation, bespeaks fear that your creation will know, and tell, too much about you, and not remain dependent upon you. Jehova god was a coward, making man in His image and likeness, only not too much...OR...is that the point, that we are supposed to FIGURE OUT how to get there, to our Godness, and we have been given tools and seeds, not fruit and flowers, because we are supposed to grow, ourselves?
**inescapable thought here, 27 years later, "I want to be unique, like everybody else" lol
*****
And today, January 13, 2011, I find this, and read it again, and marvel at how much of it--no, wait, not that. Not literary vagueness, hinting at something more...no, fact is, it is all still true. And no more comprehensible than it was then. It's been almost 28 years. When will I get further into the maze? Guess there's nothing to do but keep walking, looking, seeking, listening, praying, loving, living, and paying attention. So....
Here I go. Again.
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