I have gone against Julia Cameron’s advice and shared some of my morning pages here (heavily edited). Julia’s book, “The Artist’s Way” is very helpful if you suffering from thwarted creativity. “These daily morning meanderings are not meant to be art. Or even Writing. I stress that point to reassure the non-writers working with this book. Pages are meant to be, simply, the act of moving the hand across the page and writing WHATEVER comes to mind.” –Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way.
New Years Day 2014
The duct work needs to be rerouted so I get rich and not the other way around. Basic tools and ridiculous toys. Never mind the grass that finally stopped growing and the misremembered flotsam of my past Christmas tragedy. Stacked and tossed into lines to fill some empty time. I trip the light mediocre. I sing the body rheumatic.
Little did I know, shoving off with my David Smith wannabe steel welding goggles, that I’d end up with the thespians behind the velvet curtains. A cog in the dream factory.
Most art leads to a microphone and a spotlight and a gloved stage hand on the catwalk looking down–unimpressed. You can’t pleas’m all so picture great things in the compost of forgotten moments. Past, present and future ghosts, flying off an unfinished exit on the Tarnation Highway. Paved with the melted fat of those who couldn’t make the grade. Deathbed comedy and the slow rise of the hillbillies. Shooting star.
We’re just trying to get to the bottom of the page here. Moving the little steel ball, the dirty black point of my weapon across these virginal pages. Scribble scribble scribble. Toil. Drivel. Be water and flow my tears downstream. Can I find the time I lost? Legacy, retirement, and the dirt nap? Is that all there is? Wake up. Smell some coffee. Buy a new car and dream of what you were and wanted and will be. A little dream on me. And now…
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