Translation Transition
The sweetest sweetness of all Life
Might just be
In footnotes

In wonder
The sweetest sweetness of all Life
Might just be
In footnotes
This Morning loves me
I can tell
When fist He brings me coffee
Then goes tempting my eagerness with
forbidden gumdrop fruit
Designed and built all just for me
He, then, He let’s me be
When my eye holds only angles
They suck thought out between the lines
Being lost here somewhere is my moment
Where paint-flow washes out my mind
This moment touches you
Oh, we’re here, here, here
Joy and you hold hands just then
To breathe,
the atom splits again
Again, again, again
To live high on this delicious brew
All the fermenting is you
If you can’t be still and feel
Gratitud
You’re screwed
For God so loved the game that he played it.
John 3:16
That’s all I have to say about that. I only wish Clown Head were still here in the game and not logged out.
And why I adore dialogue with you on here.
Your insight is dramatically helpful in the monumental process that is a story teller turnings shame into vulnerability.
Your points give a clear much needed out for when us writers doubt what we are really doing.
We need this way out of our maze of fear and lies we believe feel and react to. Believing I’m exposing my friends makes me feel defensive and small like a weasel. I often suspect myself of something that makes me just like a
Writing a good story is big work.
It’s heavy lifting to process reality into an uplifting story that makes sense and creates meaning and change.
Figuring out how we got out of a tricky spot and how and why we succeeded who and what where the problems and what we learned worked or works is an art. Sharing it is brave.
Finding a way out of lives that won’t bring joy or flow properly no matter what you do or hide is priceless.
I think your points do something to help bring my personal imagination out of the bone yard. A place where I feel like I’m betraying and hurting rather than helping. Hurting isn’t my nature. So I feel paralyzed. So, I fight back.
tabloid producer and accuse myself mercilessly. So I figure the whole world is gonna see me like what I am, some Rita Skeeter, that horrid witch reporter for The Daily Prophet let’s her magical green feather pen stretch butcher and molest the truth about Harry Potter and his friends without a spark of conscience. She’s one of my least favorite fictional characters, ever. So, I’m ready and on the offensive and the defensive, when just like Rita Skeeter, I make this crap up about myself. Then, like the annoying Wizarding community I go and believe the whole thing.
So, then I’m defensive as heck.
I am not like Rita Skeeter!
While I am the only one in this “conversation”.
Only trouble: I wonder if all great writers must have this stupid “conversation” and find a way to end it every time and move forward.
You’re list did something lots of books on writing I’ve read didn’t do.
I’m not sure what it is, but I feel a little bit quenched. In a good way. : )
All the best writers write about what they know with a terrific purpose that’s got nothing to do with exposing their friends. For me, its It’s about helping myself. My friends are part of my life, and lots of what I learned is from my not-so -friendlies. What else is there to write about? How else than to tell my own experience of myself and how my friend’s and family’s crap has affected them and me and the rest of us?
But “Who do you think you are to judge you big meany!?” Still needs to be dealt with regularly. It’s gotta be dealt with. I have to do it. And I have to do it regularly, the way some other professionals have to build up their confidence regularly.
I believe the majority of great story tellers, have to do this. And your words are helping me now. And maybe, it’ll never get as bad as Rita without me knowing where the attack is coming from again.
I wonder if my inner critic identified with a sensationalist tabloid producer. I feel aversion to. I don’t know anything about tabloid writers, and don’t consider them great, or story tellers.
I guess I feel like they are infections. When we are not immune the rest of us wonder if we are also being paid to be contagious pernicious judgey gossips with no right to feel good about our calling.
Huh. I just realized something.
I guess I haven’t figured this out. I don’t know any sensationalist gossip writers at all. Not one person I know thinks I’m that way either.
I just realized. Me trying to avoid being that way is ludicrous. I spin in that cycle rather than just realizing I am not that way. Huh.
Well.
There’s really nothing to talk about.
Note: May get permission to use the points that sparked this. Gotta post my response there first and see if I am nuts after all.
When darkness is thick
Creamy and sweet
Your tongue is alive
It climbs up your feet
All wrapped in the moment
A being of taste
Is it what you are now
From what you have faced?
By
M. L. Redford
the wayward spirit wafts in
through the window when the patterns of weeks, months passed, at last,
let go and shift
she moves about the room like Franny Glass making one or two things
flutter a bit, and is gone
out past the opposite shoulder as I turn in to see what I hear
to notice things
in the room which were always there but hadn’t been noticed for weeks
or maybe months
and which had obviously been there for a purpose, staring through the books
on the shelf to find
a forgotten bookmark, an absent fold, maybe a latterdaymexicanpink
autumnal ritual –
seven parts revelationinitiation and fifteen parts flutterbybestowal –
curiouser and curiouser
are the ways of the spirit: if I follow, will I flutter, will I perch or will I fall?
either way I’ll find
the pink of gist and need to meditate before I waft or get stolen
but the spirit talks
of grounding, without talking, for she is no airy/faeree: the meaning disappears
the more you look
but in looking at the unfindability you discover all the meaning for to see:
body, soul and beauty
but no room at the inn for language, ‘you can speak a hundred languages
if you want but
you’re never as wise as the illiterate who speaks with love in her heart’
she says, without a single word
but thought of a hundred languages smaller than the stars which float away;
the language of Waywarduese
butterflies about all over the points, and all of those points held
in one wing-spread,
colourful and puckering hold, sprinkled and dlappled like rain
Oh!
Can I have it?
Is it for me?
It’s for me?
It’s for me!
It’s Mine!
You stole it from me!
I’ll be generous and
share it with you
if you let me keep it.
Please