Writing my way into the merry-go-round oblivion

January 13, 2017


Friday, the 13th. A writing day. All day. Buried in cybernetic space, capturing words and ideas like butterflies to the net, I emerged this evening disoriented. Have I been gone all day? Did I leave the house?
 
When I used to write papers in college, I’d experience that world spin standing still feeling, like just getting off the ferociously spinning playground merry go round where obstreperous middle school boys spin captives sick or flying. I’d spread papers out over the long, royal blue shag carpet of my apartment floor in the days before personal computers (gulp). I wouldn’t even get out of my pajamas for an entire weekend. Just staring at endless scribbled words. That was when I could write in nearly legible cursive penmanship.
 
I’d shuffle papers, pages and pages of written approaches, starts and stops, fits of penetrating insight overlaid with banal truths and just plain shitty prose. I turned and tossed the visions of literary geniuses and abstruse philosophical stalwarts of literary theory over and over in my head, never coming to a conclusion, never quite figuring it out.
 
But the stretch, though painful, felt like progress, growth and expansion. I felt my brain swell with inflammation and information. It hurt so good. I hated it. Loved and hated it.
 
The struggle is not the same now. I read better, comprehend more. Though merely a comp. lit major, I can write a short white paper section on patient warming techniques in the operating room through radiation, convection and conduction devices, condensing thermodynamics, biology and quantum physics into 750 words, like I did today. Before that I wrote about patient engagement strategies in healthcare, and after that I wrote about 5 superfoods for longevity.
 
No, the struggle is not so much in comprehension anymore as in attention span and endurance. I mean it’s all fascinating and boring at the same time. The process, the mechanics–blind fingertips smashing keys. But the flow–the lost time in some other realm–that’s what keeps me coming back for more.
 

Image: Rusted-playground-merry-go-round/pixabay

Digital Art and the Word Drop


That poet last night set spin wheeling nouns and verb sighs.

Just one.

His verses coursing by pleasurably permeable, sealed lids,

Just zero.

Shuttering a head hollowed of word, notion or expectation.

Just one.

Emptied, spaciously awaiting fellow travelers’ souvenirs.   

Just zero.

“Hear with eyes closed and you’ll see,” you once told me.

Just one.

Fluff-sniff uttered tears, sentimental notes on napkins, he

Just zero.

Etched lines pressed hard, full hearted and tritely delivered.

Just one.

 

But none, no magical words soothe-slid my ear’s tongue.

Just zero.

Like a sketched sea on an amber lit canvas of indigo waves

Just one.

You once cyber brushed in digital smears, dot and stroke,

Just zero.

In feathered illusion, simulations of depth, heat and space,

Just one.

But shallow and frail–less breath, less truth, less warmth–

Just zero.

Your screen nearly lifted me, lying flat across atoms and time:

Just one.

No light, no touch, no sight, no rhyme, no texture, no heights

Just zero.