Beware of Descriptive Algae

The simple things are also the most extraordinary, but only the wise can see them. (Paulo Coelho on Facebook)

Rereading my old writing from last year, I'm struck by the wordiness and senseless use of metaphor and simile. 

 

It's just too much.

 

It seems that as I discovered for myself the joys of using intricate words in writing, I just plunged in.  Deep.  Buried in sludge, I couldn't discern the true meaning in all that descriptive algae.  

 

In retrospect, it was a wise decision to stop writing for a while and try to get myself out of this swamp. 

 

No wonder people criticized my writing.

 

Simplicity is deceptively simple.   Now I have all the time in the world to master it.

Another bad poem (so why the heck am I sharing it?)

I carry many places inside my soul

But at the same time I feel empty

Secluded in my 3 bdrms 2 baths brick ranch

Lost in the middle of Americana

Behind white picket fences

Among generic faces

Always dreaming of

Scarlet sunset walks

Along cypress alleys

Ancient stucco walls

Aligning narrow streets

Housing echoes of time

A Really Bad Poem

They come to you
the bad poems
and assault your senses
with regurgitated
cliches

They whisper into your ear
to write them down
to breathe life into their
broken promises of greatness

And you obey

And then after sobering up
in the light of a sensible morning
you look in disgust on
what has written itself
on the shreds of your old existence

Welcome to insanity, my boy
You are an unpaid bad poet

A Fairytale

There was God of Creativity, who lived up in the sky of wonder, above the clouds of doubt and confusion.

He was a kind God and wanted everyone to be happy and do whatever made them happy.  To achieve that he gave all the people natural abilities and talents to enjoy.  When people utilized their talents, they felt exquisite pleasure and could even catch a glimpse of  God of Creativity himself, who was remarkably glorious.

However, some people failed to use their natural abilities because life around them was tough.  They toiled day and night to earn their daily bread  and were never  happy, so they became envious of those who did as God told them.

As the life on Earth became harder, more and more people fell away from God of Creativity and stopped using their natural talents.  More and more people grew dissatisfied and angry. Jealous of the others, they made fun of them.

"Look at you, painting your stupid pictures! What are you going to eat tomorrow, your oil paint?" they taunted the starving but happy artists.

Art has become a useless trifle and didn't pay a penny.  Being an artist became a joke. Artists could only be poor. Nobody cared about God of Creativity anymore.  People became more desperate and depressed.  The world was turning gray.  The few artists who still worshiped  God were considered madmen.

God of Creativity finally got fed up.

He said, "Stupid people, I gave you life and I gave you happiness.  You threw it away and now suffer!"

He got tired and decided to leave the Earth, taking the few worshipers left with him.  Where they are now, nobody knows, but the world is surely full of suffering.

Wonders of TOEFL

The following was taken from the wrong answer choices of TOEFL test (Test of English as a Foreign Language).  Now somebody please tell me what is REALLY wrong with the wording of these wonderful sentences. They sound like they belong in a Jane Austen novel. Why doesn't everyone start talking like that now? LOL

1.  Alfred Adams has not before lived without the company of his friends.

2.  The committee has met and it has formulated themselves some opinions.

3.  Having been served lunch, a discussion of the problem was made by the members of the committee.

4.  The chairman requested that with more carefulness the problem should be studied.

5.  She wanted to serve some coffee to her guests; however, she was lacking in the amount of sugar.

The Futility of Goals

Yes, I've been silent for too long.  And I know that nobody reads my blog. I am not a real blogger anyway, I don't get excited sharing my pearls of wisdom with the Internet readers, or crazed about other people's blogs.  I guess it's just not for me.  But I don't want to be completely out of the picture yet either.  So after four months of being locked away in the deep dungeon of the job torture, and not being able to be with myself, I am once again trying to reconnect with the soul inside of me.   I am once again surrounded by the sacred silence, listening to the whispers of a voice withing me. The voice of what, I don't know.  God, Holy Spirit, inner wisdom, my heart, a Messenger, the infinite creative well... ? But I can hear it once again, guiding me through constant battle of self-hatred that I wage with myself.  And this is what the voice made me write:

Don't focus on the end result.  Don't focus on the goal.  Just enjoy each step without thinking of the final outcome and you will grow day by day into what the outcome is supposed to be.

There's too much emphasis in the modern Western culture on the goal, but the process is usually neglected.  Making the process work for the sake of the process is the ultimate challenge.

Write, dance, exercise for the sheer enjoyment of the feeling in your body.  The improvement will happen on it's own as a byproduct.  The final result?  You don't even want the result to BE FINAL! It's a constant lifelong growth and continuation, necessary for your own self, not for the others, not for the public, your friend, your mother, your husband, or your boss.  YOU are the only person that is doing the process, for whom the process is beneficial.

Who gives a damn about the goal now? 

What the Heck Happened??

Writing stopped abruptly, like a summer storm.  The torrent of thoughts and inspiration pouring out of me, dried out without any trace.

What happened?  The silence inside my head is deafening.  There is nothing, but empty hollow space filled with vacuum.

It started with the desire to run away.  To get away from everything, from myself, to forget, to stop thinking. To run away from writing and the agony it's been causing, the sleepless nights, the self-doubt, the criticism, the constant nagging desire to persevere and succeed and publish. No matter what.  I guess that just killed everything else that comes from writing - the self-satisfaction, the quiet dialog with God, the reverence for precious words combined  into tentative poems.

I ran.  I couldn't stay home anymore, with myself, alone with my oppressive thoughts.  I went out.  I traveled.  I tasted wine.  I chatted with my friends.  I just wanted to stop processing, and start absorbing the world around me.  Without judgment, in a quiet meditative state.  Not think.  Just be.

But then, the thinking just stopped completely.  The new semester started again, and for the love of God, I still can't comprehend the resounding yes in me when I was offered to teach another class in Graduate School.  After having agonized about my role as a teacher and having finally decided that I don't want another teaching job, I had no doubts when I agreed to take on another one.

So the struggle to balance the teacher and the writer in me is continuing.  I still can't find myself between the two.  The tug of war between my two personalities is never ending.  Now I am a teacher, dedicating myself wholly to my three classes, giving up a piece of my Soul every single day to each of my students.  I tell myself to stop caring so much, and just do a job, but it's impossible.  I AM a teacher.  My life is a classroom.  I mother and mentor by default.

But I'm also a writer.  Somewhere deep inside me, she is cowering, unable to give herself voice, or yawning, tired and jaded from all the repetitiveness of life.

So I pray to the God of Writing, to please return my voice to me, to fill the dried up well with creativity, and defeat my fear.  I may not be good, and I may not ever publish, but I just want to write.