I have always had a creative outlet in my life. When I was very young, I would draw and write poetry, sculpt, make clay figures, build with legos, and basically create whatever I could from whatever medium I had available. It always felt like something that was vitally necessary for me to do. I would often make time specifically for whatever it was that I was possessed to do, and as a consequence, I wouldn’t have relationships, very many friends, and would neglect many of my other responsibilities in life such as going to get groceries, paying bills, attending to other obligations of that nature.
I am now at a point in my life where I have stalled creatively. None of my outlets are working at the moment, nor do they configure into my life as it is very prominently. There has never been a point in my life where I questioned the veracity of writing and poetry. It comes and goes of its own accord; I let my relationship to poetry specifically stand as it is because i’ve never put any pressure on myself to make it anything other than what it is. I’ve not sought to make money or win acclaim from it. The practice of writing poetry has, is, and will always be, deeply fulfilling. I’ve come up with some material i’m genuinely proud of.
As far as writing goes, before I heard of the future authoring program, I never wanted to do anything more with it than write short stories. I never excelled at this. My organization wasn’t up to par and I would get lost in details. My “stories” were hyper detail oriented and only had very loose plots, often lacking in elegance, over-complex, and with one or two-dimensional characters. They were basically unreadable.
I’ve drawn for much of my life, starting at a very early age and continuing up until a couple of years ago. Around the age of 7 or 8, I remember drawing intensely for 4 or 5 hours a day, making studies of objects or just drawing from imagination. I would ignore everything around me, including eating when my mother called me for food. I would continue to draw throughout highschool.
I became obsessed with metaphysics when I graduated, but I still drew quite a bit, even in the midst of that. Both pursuits, metaphysical and artistic, were only heightened when I met Katherine. We would practice both together on a daily basis. I still miss those days. They were much more simple, if not irresponsible, when I had someone who I thought loved me no matter my station in life, and would be ok with me practicing my craft all day when I got off from work. I think Katherine has much more talent than I do, and she will eventually sell her work for money if she continues to hone her craft.
Around that time, probably mid-way through my time with Katherine at our first apartment, I began to feel a shift towards something musical. When living with Jeff and Billy (I don’t count Tammi; she’s basically a parasite). I owned a guitar and a bass. I really enjoyed both of them. It’s surreal now, thinking back to my level of skill and how utterly disproportionate it was to my deep fascination with sound. It didn’t matter what it sounded like. The capacity of that strange instrument to make sounds normally inaccessible to people in their daily lives was all that it took to marshal my curiosity and fascination into a focused torrent, to bare down relentlessly on all who were unfortunate enough to be within ear-shot.
This may sound naive, but there was a purity in the naked sounds produced that made me think that I was speaking in a different language. I know this is often said of music now, and probably not with the depth of understanding it deserves, but I felt and experienced what it meant before I ever heard it vocalized or expressed in popular culture, before I went to school for it.
I think that’s the same purity of language I felt when I wrote poetry. There was something powerfully expressive in shifting context and word-painting, in using language in a very unconventional way, that gave rise, at least to me, to the momentum necessary to heft that heavy focusing lens of awareness away from its default position and slowly push it onto alignment with another facet of language, highlighting a wholly new conceptual landscape. Here we reach the point where we push up against the limits of conventional language to describe the internal human experience.
In this respect, I cannot decide what is more evocative: music or language. I’ve had very powerful experiences with both, and indeed rely quite a bit on both for a certain kind of sustenance. That particular kind of nourishment reached its height of its concentration in the works of Bach, Tarrega, Ernesto Garcia De Leon, Sor, Mario Castelnuovo Tedesco, Roland Dyens, and Sabicas. As far as literature is concerned, I refer to Walt Whitman, Dylan Thomas, Jack Kerouac, and Fyodor Dostoevesky. They are equals as far as i’m concerned.
I have reached the point where the only thing I have left as far as creative outlets are blogging. I have to force myself to do it. I don’t think ‘force’ is quite the right word. I would say that it’s a monumental struggle, but it really isn’t. I find that it’s very easy. It just requires pushing up against and maintaining force against the momentary psychological resistance I always experience when I embark on something that has yet to be instilled as a pattern in my life.