With Better Thinking

Muscles atrophy all too quickly without use. Is the brain a muscle? Is there a muscle used for writing? The thing about it is that there was always a pen and paper available and those were employed some to keep from allowing total degeneration of cellular structures recently built up for the task of putting words together in some form or another — but there was no signal from which to send it out into the universe for sharing, which left the process lacking.

The pen met the paper so as not to lose full momentum toward the day the signal would return, but the stories remained shallow or incomplete because housework was engaged instead of full focus on more artistic endeavors. It was wonderful to get the abode more in order so that enjoyment of the telling could be measured more aptly somewhat later — stuff and dirt had piled up while she had previously been playing more than caring.

There was a day or two of Library signal reading but there is little way to keep from being interfered with while trying to think, with children coughing and mothers chiding or people coming and going. It’s a lonely affair, writing, but a relished one nonetheless — it often can’t be done with other’s participation.

“Hey, Picasso!” one exclaimed.
Another said, “Is the paint wet?” while running their fingers through it while it was still wet.
“Can you cut these blinds for me please?”
“There’s nobody over in plumbing.” She was working for Home Depot.

The next time they asked her to do the artwork, she said she would but on one condition: that she could do it at her own home — ALONE.
They obliged.

One of the things that stood out in the movie about Jackson Pollock was that he invited people in to watch him paint. Hard to imagine how he could. Trying to get into any kind of zone takes discipline and people interfering simply isn’t very simpatico with that — as Stephan Halpern ‘music’ plays in the background all the while she is typing.
Spectrum Suite 
Her teacher way back then said that that was the only thing that one should ever try to write with — no imbibing or drugs —  though a candle or two might help and almost always Mr. Halpern’s sounds would.

While she was taking the waiting-for-a-signal break, a hundred or so pages were read in the Chaos book and even though he, (Robert Sapolsky in his required reading for his lecture about it), had said it had been known to change one person’s life in a profound way while making another stupefied that they had had to read it, it was all she could do to get ten pages in at first, but once she picked up on the momentum and knowledge compounded upon knowledge in a fractal-kind-of method — she was starting to see what he had meant that it would be impossible to see the world in the same way, ever again — it wasn’t at all what she thought it would be though — but she looks forward to reading some each night before she goes to insomnia.

Oh, how she wishes she were smarter so she could look into some of the math and other disciplines mentioned with some kind of actual understanding — thank goodness for intuition — and that is mentioned largely in the book as well.

Another book read a little too was Reader’s Digest — Great Short Stories Of The World — a book published in 1972 that showed up while she was tidying. There was a lot of he said, she said  with plenty of narrative description, but she found them all sounding a little bit too common or simple even though she liked them and knows she has a lot to learn and is more than willing — about how to write a real story.

So with the signal back and the house almost in proper order, her neighbor’s going to teach her how to make Kombucha and she’s planning to produce enough, (writing, not Kombucha), to fill in the blanks that will account for the original one-a-day commitment and the two-hours-a-day minimum practice that she previously promised a teacher.

It always helps to make things up when there is ever and ever more knowledge — so the break was a good thing after all. Perhaps she should thank Century Link instead of complaining. It’s always a better thing to have a little gratitude — the world is a better place in all its cracks and crevices, to infinity and beyond, with better thinking.

measuring a coastline

The Coastline Paradox — to get a gist, imagine you are a beetle crawling over every pebble with a ruler that is the size that fits you — it gets longer the smaller the measurements, ad infinitum