The Creation of Thought
I am more a cat person than a dog person, mostly because I can see what dogs are thinking, but cats are kinda like me, watching something others can’t see.
How important is it to be logical? A writer must definitely suspend the logical thought process, for logical writing tends towards being almost unreadable to anyone outside of the actual umbrella of knowledge that such writing usually encompasses. I just had a very anger inducing moment, caused by the really sad state of my internet and computer technology, my main desktop is down, and I am using a small and half working lappy that does the job, but just barely. Basically, I had an entire blog written, and it dealt with subconscious thought processes and the way I deal with them, it was personal, it was quickly written, and I was deep into it, so I did not notice that my searches for synonyms just returned the blank page of internet death. I am savvy as to what they mean, I know when my modem has disconnected from our great brain of an internet, but I was in the midst of creation, as I am now. Paranoia is keeping my mind on the writing this time, but it is just matter of time until again, I lose a thousand words I just poured my being into. I am/was so angry! I instead decided to write about this subject, and put the energy to good use, but still, the truth is, those words, those phrases and thoughts, are lost to me. I have of course, the outline of said blog in my head, but ugh, right now, I just can not be bothered. Curiously though, the energy did give me the ability to just keep on keeping on, and posed this question to me, where do my thoughts come from?
I posted some lame stuff the other day, thought it was well liked, I was simply to mind exhausted from my job to write. Denver has had one hell of a weekend for liquor stores, with it being Pridefest, Juneteenth, and Father’s Day all rolled up into one weekend, and I came home friday and saturday without two words to rub together. I need three to four hours after such days to get back into mental shape, and it worries me about how such jobs affect us all. We were never meant to be human robots, which is what most of us in America are doomed to do right now. These horrible jobs sap us of our ability to create, and instead, all we want to do is anything but think. I find it to be just like writing, when I am writing, I just want to keep writing, but if I have been doing dull repetitious crap all day, all I want to do when I come home is be boring and dull. I am never at a loss of words, except when I get home from such days, when the lines never end, and my good will is torn from me into a swamp of grey dull instinct. My lovely bride to be often asks what is wrong, and I have no answer, because I do not know why I get like that. I know it has something to do with creativity, or lack of it, because like I said, not two words to rub together to make a spark.
I am going to be researching this, because now I have this burning curiosity, why do I get like this? Why would I want to post my old crap that never satisfied me in the first place, over writing a new idea, and firing up the old creativity engine? I absolutely adore this new freedom I have with writing, it is taking over me in ways I can not explain, although I am sure quite a few of you out there would agree that it does such to us. I am at a loss for where it all comes from though, but it has something to do with who I am, and how I see the world around me. I know I find beauty in the strangest of places, and it takes someone really special to understand sometimes, why I do not want to move from a bench in a crowded outdoor mall, or why I am staring at a dead tree in the middle of the night. How do you tell someone that you see demons in the woodwork, elves in the light, and beautiful stories in the middle of a public area, where no one stands around for more than 30 seconds?
I find I can stare at the paint in my bathroom, and the chaos that is fractal all around us inspires me in the random drips and texture changes on what to most people seems a very old bathroom wall, plain and rather ugly. I see Afro Samurai, and his companion, the Death Bird, there is the elephaunt of fantasy, stomping the little things around it, there is the fire of the Afro Samurai’s hair that lights the angel path to heaven above him, but it his hair, and it is the fire and it is something different the next time I look. I am not crazy, I just have this ridiculous over active imagination that never seems to stop, unless I will myself into a meditative state and try my best to stop thinking at all. I rarely if ever talk about things like this, because most people would assume I am borderline schizophrenic or some such, as I have actually talked about it to a few people, and it is pretty much always the same return, “Yeah, you are crazy, but it’s ok, we like you anyways.”
Thoughts like this can really get me into trouble at times to, because as my hearing declines with old age, so does my capacity to make clear communications with the outside world. I hate saying, “Huh?” all the time, and in turn my brain will just fill in what ever it seems is close to the actual words were, and while it causes some laughs, it causes me concern for how big my damn hearing aid will have to be, so I don’t turn “How was your day?” into “I begged the bitch to play!” Is it just me or do the majority of people not think like me? I know through my life, my viewpoint is unique, different, radical, and pretty much not in tune with the masses. I watch no tv, I care not for sports, and sometimes a simple story of overcoming a small obstacle of love will make me weep tears for no reason I can fathom at the time. I guess I am lucky to have such an imagination, but I sure do wonder where the hell I got it from.