Tag Archives: Writing

Yellow

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Sunflower .  .  .

Bee Pollen .  .  .

School Bus .  .  .

M & M  .  .  .

I don’t know how to name it; that deep, saturated, syrupy, golden-yellow that hitchhikes in on a slant of late summer and gifts the world with the profound, happy wisdom of a primary color.

When I gaze at the word “primary” and rotate it around on the lazy Susan of my mind, I think of it as meaning: First. Original. Source.

It’s a beginning. A piece of purity. It stands in contrast to the mangled creations of my imagination. The ones tainted with memories and habitual reactions to those memories.

The chaff I’d like to rake out from my fields of mental-thought, so that I can live in the cleanliness of pure yellow. In all its happy innocence.

But somewhere along the riverbanks of life, I lost a lot of my innocence. And I began to dwell in melancholy.

It was comfortable. In a strange way, it felt like home. As though I’d lived there before.

I knew the protocol and the inflections. I could walk the gait of the lonely along the moors.

This is the onset of my private Blue Period. It arrives like a marauding uncle without much warning .  .  . a drifter sad and blue.

The antidote is: Yellow.

When I’m conscious enough to catch myself hoboing into the silky arms of melancholia – that train without a track – I halter myself with images of yellow.

Yellow ascends.

And I follow like a Velcro balloon craving attachment. Once we connect, I feel a lighter beingness. I begin to settle into the coven of contentment. I start to peel my sagging countenance up from the sidewalk and stand in the spotlight of a loving, happy force that applauds my discipline.

I’m at war in these moments. A quiet inner war. With the blue note in my soul that I was born to wrestle in this lifetime. With the minor keys I’m destined to play on the piano of my universe.

My peace is to huddle next to a yellow wall. An entire wall of blossoming, rising happiness – the warm air of love on a vacant street corner.

Woman - Walking Against Yellow Wall

This wall is especially seductive as the world turns tortoiseshell.

As October marbles into November.

As colors swirl from gold to brown.

As the browning of late autumn signals the advent of burrowing in for winter.

As musing twirls to mocha.

As I peek through the lacework of naked trees, it’s the cozy of yellow I chase.

 

 

The Grind

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Mocha Muse has its very own newspaper, The Grind. It may contain a quote, a poem, song lyrics, snippets of overheard conversation or fascinating facts about creativity/life. So, leather sofa in Home Interiorsnuggle into the sofa, unfold the paper and reach for your morning cup of coffee.

 

Here’s the nineteenth issue. . . just click on newspaper to enlarge, then continue to click until text is readable for you!

 

 

 

 

The Grind - (8-10-2015) A Perfectly Artful Creation

 

** Quote: Lev Grossman

All Language is a Longing for Home

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Child - Staring Out of Window at Rain

 

Words are the pillows upon which I cry.

                                                                      ~ journal entry

Sometimes I find inspiration to write from my own stream-of-consciousness script. Little spontaneous lines that I jot down on napkins or newspapers stranded on dirty little café tables. Or fragments that fall out from a journal page as I reread pages of ancient scribble.

 

This line has been lost for several years. Some secret search-and-rescue team recently returned it to me.

 

I ran to the comfort of its private truth. I squeezed it and out poured a cousin-quote.

 

A quote from Rumi: All language is a longing for home.

 

These two simple lines meant a whole lot to me when I committed the greatest, self-advertised failure of my life: my divorce.

 

These lines still mean a whole lot to me.

 

The power of words and the act of writing helped to heal; helped to corral me through a dark rite of passage.

 

When divorce became a reality for me, I crawled into my journal. I claimed my address as east of the spiral binding and north of the blue line.

 

There is a structure and freedom in words that offers stability. They have solid beams and spacious windows.

 

Words take flight like sparrow’s wings. Perch on rooftops – alone and watchful.

 

They watch until they understand. Then take flight again.

 

Dew drops on their wings, in the morning light, are like pearls. Shimmering opaque. Their meanings both solid and liquid.

 

Pearls are born of woundedness – injuries to the oyster, whose immune systems fight by cauterizing irritation with beauty. When the shell is opened, the pearl having healed its landlord’s house, is free to leave.

 

Free to travel the seas and the lands. Free to be pierced with holes and strung between knots to form jewelry. Wrapped around human flesh or hung to dangle from spongy earlobes. Or stitched to gauzy fabrics and floated over lithe bodies waltzing in the night.

 

The curing beads find themselves in many places alien.

 

They are mobile and always glistening with serene smiles because they are complete.

 

They are at peace.

 

They have served as healers. They travel always with their medicine kits wrapped up inside.

 

They are always at home, always content, wherever they go because they carry their homes inside their smooth exoskeletons.

 

Words are like pearls to me. They hold their historical lineages of meaning inside of their compound contraction of characters. They can be written or spoken, translated, misspelled, and mispronounced. Their definitions can be added to or subtracted from. They are flexible and unfettered by the urgency of their users.

 

They are the raw materials for communication.

 

They are neutral in war.

 

They are eternal and patient.

 

They live in dictionaries for authentication, but, they travel endlessly while still at home.

 

Like pearls, words wear their homes.

 

Humans may try to make them homeless, or arcane, but, never do they truly succeed.

 

Words are at rest around us . . . to comfort us, to provide for us, to teach us, to heal us, to furnish the homes of our thoughts: our pain, our joy, our creativity.

 

Words live individually but thrive in the community of language. As we learn to befriend words, we join the clubs of language. We seek to speak ourselves into existence. We speak our homes through word expressions. We write to see our homes constructed on a page.

 

Without language, we might not ever find our homes – the true homes inside ourselves.

 

We are free in words.

 

We are home even when homeless, if we call upon words and trust in their wisdom of generational meaning.

 

Language carries us to the doorstep.

 

We must enter the home and claim it.

 

Writing is a roadmap. Full of: Blue highways. Back roads. Dirt roads. Crooked paths.

 

Writing plots our trail back to the heart home we carry inside and project outward. tree

 

 

Language can be both a ceiling and a floor while the walls are crumbling.

The Grind

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Mocha Muse has its very own newspaper, The Grind. It may contain a quote, a poem, song lyrics, snippets of overheard conversation or fascinating facts about creativity/life. So, leather sofa in Home Interiorsnuggle into the sofa, unfold the paper and reach for your morning cup of coffee.

 

Here’s the seventeenth issue. . . just click on newspaper to enlarge, then continue to click until text is readable for you!

The Grind - (7-27-2015) Hangman's Noose=Creativity

*Reference:“Necklace”

The Grind

Standard

Mocha Muse has its very own newspaper, The Grind. It may contain a quote, a poem, song lyrics, snippets of overheard conversation or fascinating facts about creativity/life. So, leather sofa in Home Interiorsnuggle into the sofa, unfold the paper and reach for your morning cup of coffee.

 

 

 

Here’s the sixteenth issue. . . just click on newspaper to enlarge, then continue to click until text is readable for you!

 

The Grind - (7-20-2015) Make Space For Creativity

 

*References: Light and Sound Teachings & UberFacts

 

 

Some Days are Written; Some Days are Read

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Old books, inkstand and scrollSome days I write thousands of words and soak in their imaginary meanings like a healing hot tub.

And then some days, I have no desire to write. There is no fulfillment in either the act or the outcome.

Why this inconsistency of creativity?

It’s not writer’s block. There’s no fear.

It’s something like a shift in circadian rhythm.

My creative clock doesn’t tick according to night or day; Hallmark holidays, patriotic holidays or religious sacristy. It doesn’t bow to the lunar cycle or bend to the ocean tides. But if I examine its pattern a little more closely, it does seem to follow the four seasons – the solstices and the equinoxes.

Right now in the Northern Hemisphere – in the middle-of-nowhere desert where I live – it’s summer.

The days are warm with azure skies in the mornings and monsoon thundershowers in the afternoons.

The sky is center stage. It’s theater is spectacularly bold and diverse. Its performances are fully absorbing and keep me curious.

I’m satisfied at a core level, at a visceral, molecular stratum of being.

And I’m going to posit here that I’m not just simply lazy; I’m actually content and at peace.

When I exist in this place of balance, I’m withdrawn from the urge – or the need – to create.

Because I’m complete.

Momentarily.

For three months, perhaps.

My inner world is not having temper tantrums. It’s not needy, desperate, dwelling in its wounds, picking its soul-scabs.

It’s still.

And when stillness rests over my private cosmos, I’m not inclined to write or create in any venue.

Why?

I’ll suggest that creativity is, in part, at least, the heart’s quest for fulfillment; the ego’s cry to preach; the spirit’s hunger to bite the marrow inside the bone.

If I x-ray myself, I see a world of chaos and haze; of potholes and teardrops; of fears and muddy, gravel-less roads of quicksand.

It’s a messy tableau.

It craves order.

So it tries to collect all its stray cats and thrust them outward in an act of creation that’s volcanic. Eruptively beautiful, poignant, provocative, disturbing – an objet d’art that purges some inner pain and places it tangibly in the physical world for others to bask in.

Be moved by. Feel empathy with. Turn away in disgust at the cavernous echoes it sends back to their own hidden wreckage.

A peek at the creative process from a different angle.

This slantview: part selfish; part reverential .  .  . may be skewed.

 

Back to those summer days, though. I do find myself passively reading. Like a chipmunk gathering stock for the winter, I collect word-concepts for the burst of creative urgency that nips at the frigid hiney of every Winter Solstice.

A life-cycle that I’m unconscious of until I step back and watch myself with all the marionette strings severed.

A lightning flash of a new landscape blinks.

It’s a veil unblackened.

There’s a temptation to draw a conclusion.

But, I know the little assassin in my mind will shoot bullet holes in whatever billboard I erect. Billboard

So, I’ll hug darkness with wonderment.