Thursday, April 21, 2011

Shattered Perception

“Writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some under culture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.”- Don Delillo


The following words are visceral. I never had any rationale to be anything else in my writing; there is no portent here or animosity. My words are simply ‘dipped heavily in reality’.

Many of my long time readers have assumed I’m writing a memoir. I’m not. Thousands of tear-your-heart-out stories arrive in ink on any given day. So many…I’m only one. Truth be told, I want my words in any format to be what draws my readers in - not compassion or pity (a germane consideration). Not unlike any other writer, I want my lexis alone to carry weight, to sustain someone’s thirst for reading.

So what exactly am I writing? Ah, the boxed perception - choose one over another. Why not explore? I’ve proven my ability on a poetic level. Would it surprise you to learn I can play rather well in the horror field? Before you wander away, claiming I’m taking you down a road you won’t tread, hear me out.

I read horror, suspense, thrillers (other genres). I have this innate ability to recognize the monsters parading around in human guise (life lessons). Every one of us has a base fear; one or more things that curdle our stomach, fears which crawl beneath the skin like an itch they can’t scratch. Ignoring the itch won’t make it stop nor halt the fear. Why does it scare us so much, is there more reality and suffrage in view within the horrifying than anything else?

I find fear, pain, sorrow; all give way to opposing emotions, courage, compassion, hope. I won’t draw a line through any human being or life experience. All of what you perceive, the ugly demographic to the beautiful poetic go hand in hand. We short sight ourselves when we refuse to acknowledge far more emotional baggage exist in one form or another in our lives. How would you know to love, if not having seen hate in all it’s nefarious philandering? Hope without having lost something to want for, or fear without having been frightened.

Yes, it is a very delicate balance beam to foray. We’ve witnessed what happens when someone crosses a line and becomes destructive, hateful, and murderous. The question is would you recognize the beauty in your life if you had not been aware of the revolting?

A friend of mine said to me today, “People obsess about the outline, but can’t be bothered to color inside the lines.” She’s right. We obsess with our happily ever after and never quite appreciate the darker aspects we trespass on the journey. Life is a multi-facet compromise made of a colorful humanity. There is no black and white drawn ideology. We can draw in, outside, over the lines if we so choose.

Some people might be amazed to discover Edgar Allan Poe had a bounty of gorgeous sentiments penned on love. You didn’t know that? A fine example of viewing only one aspect of someone’s writing.

Kahlil Gibran wrote, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” We can’t - I won’t overlook the scars in all their horrifying detail in my writing. The trick is to find the beauty in the wreckage while still aware of the broken pieces left lying about… I can give you numerous examples; all you need to do is examine your own lives to see instances of where the horrifying touched down. Our lives are shattered perceptions in which we traverse words between the poetic to the horrendous. You can’t dip your pen in one without experiencing the other.

We are all books that need to be read at a deeper level, savored between pages, breathings of words defining heart and soul; from the bitter ugly truth and depths of cruelty, to the exquisite magnificence of unfound beauty. I’ll continue to slice a vein and bleed all over the page – reality is horrifyingly frightening amid the splendor.
- Indigo

Picture Can Be Found Here

Saturday, April 9, 2011

In Between Seasons

“You will find that it is all very familiar…the strange and faraway places where you’ve never been. The wild unknown leads you to a place just around the corner. Take a picture when you get there…the road is you.” – J. Bebe, R. Hammond


My heart belongs to the open road. Always has…always will.

There is a hidden mystery beyond each curve and bend in the road. Nature defends against the ongoing tirade of human occupancy and cloaks her crevices in the foliage of decrepit urban decay. Asphalt fractures and leans precarious into coverts; tree limbs stretch skyward warmed by the sun’s prompt to tangle wires, downing lines; vines, roots, push and prod the loose gravel apart weeping for sunlight. These sacred sentinels are what draw me each and every time further into their womb, up the winding mountain back roads. I too wish to leave my humanity behind.

Today the road beckoned with open arms. Come see us, we’ve grow. Mother earth is awake, come see…

Clones of naked bark reached stick limbs skyward tickling the Persian sky until it burst into giggles of strata wisp. A familiar land mark slides into view - ‘The hand of God’, a tree trunk in a field sharpened by time and pointing toward the heavens. A few weather worn barns gave up the ghost losing the war with the elements. Grass the color of wheat balled and rolled across fields not yet warmed into spring’s recurring bottle green. A mare held her head high nostrils sniffing the air, tail waving a salute readying for the scourge of flies soon to come. Although heart warming one and all, I continued looking for another undiscovered bend or turn in the road.

A left hand turn into another right and the familiar began to fall away as winding twist in the roads rose higher and higher up the mountain. A smile teased across my face at the sight of snow sulking in the shadows beneath pine boughs. The vista opened up to reveal the next slope on the rollercoaster highway and a lake spread out in the valley below. Ice bathed all but her shore, slowly slinking back on itself and giving way to winters mourning. This was a haven I’d not traveled before. Every fiber of my being grinned with anticipation as the tires ate the asphalt and moved with the contours of the land around me.

A spontaneous day, urged on impulse bared the soul of the open road between seasons. I couldn’t help but feel as if I’d been let in on a secret kept hidden from prying eyes. There is an incredible intensity in the in-between, a not quite ready, almost, and I am here sense of understanding – which is ethereal in its beauty.

Life has been my greatest teacher.

As a writer, I trace life lessons across the pages of a book. In those ‘I’m not quite done moments’, there is still concrete substance to my words with room to grow. Everything sits in between seasons before blooming to full potential. We begin; we grow, flourish, and complete the cycle. - Indigo

Original picture here