Roller Coast

Writers, man.

We live deliciously. And when I say that, I mean that we often tend towards the magnificence of highs and lows. I’ve always been more partial to the belief that artists, musicians, writers, poets and the like tend to live life on the shorter wave-length side of things.

Imagine life as a string. We all get the same length of string. Pin it down to one side of the desk. Now, give it a nice, soft undulation of a small lake and see where it lands. That’s a good example of a typical life.

Take another string, same length, same starting point, and make those undulations like the waves of the ocean, impressive highs and catastrophic lows.  The ocean string runs out far before the lake string. This is the life of a creative.

Does that mean we die sooner? Not necessarily. In some extreme cases (think Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison or Jimi Hendrix) death was aided in his cause by the use of drugs or alcohol. But it begs the question, why do such creative geniuses seem to expire sooner?

I have an unsupported theory that living in a creative mind isn’t easy. Often, it’s a discombobulated place, filled with wild fantasy, grim darkness, and a dash of bipolar tendencies. The fantastical neurons are on overdrive and move in spiraling thought storms that are often uncontrollable or at best frustratingly elusive.

That’s not an easy brain to live in.

We may scoff at Hemingway’s whiskey or Stephen King’s cocaine but it’s hard to make quick judgments when we’ve all had to deal with voices in our heads, characters doing whatever-the-damn-well-they-want, plot failures and to top it off, the cycles of elation and rejection that line this path we’ve chosen (willingly or not).

Writing can be hard on the heart.

We get diagnosed with depression, anxiety, panic attacks, emotional disorders or other mental health issues. And I’m prone to believe that part of that comes from a society and educational system that values the boxed in test score measures than the immeasurable brain power involved in creative and critical thinking.

When we’re standing at the precipice of throwing our work into the world, firing out the query letters, calling editors and agents, pitching novels, or even entering contests, the mountains of hope and valleys of despair can be wretched chemical surges that amplify the already swirling thunderstorms in the creative mind.

No wonder we are driven to seek out the numbing magic of fermented fruit or dried poppy milk. We’re seeking to elongate the valleys and peaks.

Unfortunately for the human body, those distractions are just that…distractions. Bandaids over too deep a wound.

My point is this, writer, creator, artist with vividly full skull… you are a colorful, magical, beautiful soul, who’s gift comes at the cost of a little sanity. You will see things and know things the world at large is not ready to see or know.

They may call you a dreamer.

But you’re not the only one.

Surround yourself with people who get it. Who know when you need to pontificate in unruly and unrelated thought strings out loud once in awhile, and who understand when you want to stay quietly tucked into a corner avoiding eye contact. You know… other vividly full skulls.

Find your weirdos and keep each other on the gentle undulation side of things, so that when your mind and talent have created in the frothing whirlwind, you can bring your ideas, books, poems, articles, and novels, to the world while standing on solid ground.

When you are in the fire of creating, let it burn.

Then cull your flames with rest, and good food, and time away so that you have the fuel to burn for a long, long, long time to come.

VerseDay 4-4-2019

 

 

What We Lost In The Fire

 

The favorite,

The only.

The irreplaceable

Warmth of need

Burned down to ashes

And the lies we told ourselves

To keep it from leaving

Gone.

Orange and black wisps in swirls of wind

We destructive pillars

That love

only to destroy

That shield

only to suffocate

That want

only to deny.

Fickle-hearted arsonists,

Love and burn

Cherish and consume

Better to see objects of affection destroyed

Than ever set free.

Rather let the memory burn,

an inextinguishable flame

Than free ourselves from the shackles of desire.

Never understanding,

how much of ourselves sits smoldering alongside

Until all we are

Is ash and loss.