Tuesday, July 08, 2008

Moar epic Writing Practice

I mostly live in a world of my own. From the time I was little, the world of my imagination was beyond vivid. So real, there were story lines and characters, and infinite worlds I inhabited on a daily basis.

For a long time it felt like who I was, was wrong. Wrong family, wrong time, wrong place. Not in a bad way, it just seemed like there was somewhere else i needed to be. The feeling subsided, but made me wonder. Years later, learning about reincarnation and parallel lives (more later perhaps for those not privy to such far out concepts), I realized there was perhaps a truth to those feelings.

I loved my family. Growing up with parents like I did was a blessing. Normal problems arose, but of course they happen and some believe we pick our circumstances for a reason. To learn certain lessons. A training ground. A game of sorts to work out our spiritual muscles. School of hard knocks it was not by any means, but "interesting times" perhaps as the Chinese blessing / curse goes.

My first memory. A few come in flashes. There was an episode of the Muppet show that my very younger self found insanely hilarious. It involved Kermit the frog being swung back and forth by Miss Piggy, or the human guest on the show. The swinging went on for a few back and forths and then he was thrown out twords the camera, off into space. I can still feel a little bit of the laughter well up inside me. The memory is set in my first house, the one on Jackson Avenue, in New Windsor, New York. As I'm recalling, replaying the so funny Muppet Show incident in my head I'm playing on the red painted wooden swing sett my Grandfather made. There was a round, pink plastic swing with yellow plastic rope and a wooden normal sitting style swing made of wood with a twine - rope maybe of plastic too. I see the black melted ends. Leeds me to believe it was not an organic material. It's sunny out. Bright, green grass, trees. The pond is behind me. I seem to be by myself. Totally lost, enjoying the moment. The thought of the Muppet show the only thing not in that present moment.

The thought is that moment.

I remember bits and pieces of that old house. My bedroom. Pulling out all the clothes out of my drawers. Laughing again. Wearing a Micky mouse club hat with two little black plastic ears. The logo is a label, or screen printed on. Felt, green or blue. There are pictures of this incident.



A flash of my niece faith comes to me now. I see her smile, and mine from that memory, that picture. They are one in the same.

here's another one.

(side note, is It bad that i really don't know the conventions of writing and grammar al that well? Should I be starting another paragraph, is the punctuation correct? I love disregarding rules and going free for all, but my conscience is saying 'but...but..")

I'm young again. Wearing my terry cloth light baby blue robe with white trim. It's really early in the morning. We're up, my parents and I, watching TV and waiting. I'm participating in some sort of contest to win a Sony Watchman. Absolutely the height of gadgetry and technological advancement at the time. Watch tv anywhere?!!! So cool, and so revolutionary. I can see early patterns of being fascinated by this stuff. No wonder I'm a trend forecaster. Piers called me a senior writer today. The weak side of me thought it as superfluous, meaningless, a joke, lack of better words. But it's perhaps true, Senior in age? Some other shave been with the site for a while, but I suppose I have been too. I do keep hitting home runs.

Any how.

Coco puffs are involved. Small pieces. Little sentences. Words and word combination.

Uh u oh, the narrative is dissipating. Poetry emerging.

Must be the beer.

I have conquered art. Must now go back - go forward into words, bring us all back to the symbolic truth love and beauty art that IS. Mastered that. Now this to lead the way.

I didn't win the tv, but was very excited. My parents got up to help me, watch me. They were excited for me.


The ancient stone walls that surround my fathers house contain many mysteries. I almost feel now that that narratives and imaginative story lines that I play acted out as a child were coming from the rocks. Cultural, mythical memory. Story lines transmitted along energy leys. straight into my budding brain. Seeding it.

The walls are crumbling a little now, but nothing that can't be fixed. John has the gift of constructing similar walls. Cosmetic but cosmic?


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