Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Soldiers and Stillness

I want to write a book I decided for the thousandth time today.  I opened some short stories and other writings from the past today and skimmed a few lines here a few lines anywhere and realized how lost I was in regards to notes and what was to be the idea of the next paragraph and what words were to be used here and generally the entire flow of work and knowing where your tools and phrases are was akin to a construction site that had been hit by a tornado of disuse.  I mean when a book or story or idea comes through the mind it is best to record soon afterwords as the memory soon forgets the moments etched in ripples of time that fade and grow dim like the sun falling out of the sky at twilight and beyond. 

And lo at times I am so full of stories and sketches and ideas and so overwhelmed in my fantasia nirvanic existence that I do not record and simply carpe diem instead.  However it is at times like these that wish I had recorded more and kept it someplace fresh so that I would not be so lost on a day like today where I can barely carry my head around as it be dragging on the ground from the force of gravity and for some reason after months and months I picked up a book today and a panging pine struck me: "I want to write something too," abounded within me.  So by accident, after stumbling upon a book and opening the pages and casting left right left right hashing glances for 50 pages or so I became jealous and envious and desirous to cast something in ink as well.  I happened upon a book of paintings by Dali my former favorite artist whom I had adored and been inspired by immensely in high school.  When I opened the book the sense collection of artistic pieces, struck me severely despite my rather nihilistic mind set while searching for the Dali painting appearing in my previous post when I fancied I was a misanthrope. 

How cool I thought to have a collection of word sketches after a period of continual, determined, focused, diligent attempts at actual writing.  I do have my short stories and other short writings and journals and journals from the past in order to get a sense of and survey the scenes of the past.  Nevertheless I suffer from what I call mellow prosaic shell shock syndrome.  What it amounts to is that it becomes very difficult to be still for long periods of time and to be constantly belligerated by the stress of existence.  For example as I was reading my book today at the Cafe Atlantique I could not stop figdeting, squirming, swimming in my seat, constantly moving the book from this angle to that angle, adjusting my neck, sitting in a ball leaning against the wall, doing a headstand and reading upside down at one point, to simply sitting in a normal position with book on table in front of me.  I am sure there is some sort of official medical diagnosis for this that might give lip service to neuronal this or that and would probably end in the prescription of some little magical pill or chemical that is so magical that it would cost a grand for a monthly dose that in all likely hood would have no effect on the inability to sit still and might even cause an eye-lash to develop a twitch and increase my appetite so that I gain 50lbs and become so fat in effect immobilizing myself and learning stillness in that manner.

I am always envious, in awe of, and miraculoused by the soldiers I see on TV who stand for hours at a time completely still and at attention ceremoniously for some event or another.  I admire their discipline, their self control, patience, stillness.  I envy them, want to be them, or even a Buddhist monk who can sit still for eternity.  I am also a smoker which only inflames my mellow prosaic shell shock syndrome further.  And this grating of the nerves, this constant twitch, is only present during times when my thoughts are not in a state of fantasia nirvanic - which is a majority of the time.  When the spirits are low and dim, when one feels like a shadow on the wall, a non-entity, an automaton, empty head dull and gray, that is when one suffers from Mellow Prosaic shell shock syndrome.  This might also be called Job syndrome when the gods are not pouring manna magical mead into your mind inducing a fantasia nirvanic state, and one must learns to cope with a lack of inspiration and grayer skies.  And who wants and the fact that it is not right to be abducted by the gods and have them pour sublime beautiful thoughts chains and realizations and incipient poigniant moments and induce one to love of life and existence constantly. 

But it is during this time when the experience of pain is elevated to the point where pain is painless and converted simply into a decrease in energy and force but energies and force during these times are terribly unlacking and overabundent and the stress of life is non-existent and from moment to moment life is seamless frictionless and stillness is then no longer an issue and "self-control" but reigns supreme.  Thus the problem of reliance on such forces and states of being in order to have aplomb, charm, joviality, the ability to sit still and be still, confidence, virility, full of life and vitality comes into play.  Writers can afford such matters as they channel such energies and secretly store away the treasures they mine from channeling into books and never have to expose themselves when they are not at their best, have time to arrange their thoughts, put up a facade that is so undoubtedly difficult to maintain with constant regular sustained exposure to others.

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