I awake with colors hovering, twisting and turning and shifting, waiting for me to pull them into myself to mix with my blood, swift through my veins and muscle and marrow. I arise, full of color, full to the spilling point, full to the overrunning waters point, and float to my writer’s room to thick-liquid pour myself out to you.
The black hole of loneliness isn’t so apparent when I write for you, for it takes me outside of my prism and into the freedom of possibility—who knows what magic and color and light a black hole really contains in its deep dark mystery? (Alone. A writer’s alone. A woman’s alone. A human’s alone. Alone is a color, an energy, a substance. It propels and exhausts, exhilarates and discombobulates. It is freedom and melancholy. But, ah, my loneliness is a digression into another day, another post.)
As I write, my synapses fire off, pulse alive with energy, a changeling pattern. My world in images compose the five and the sixth and the seventh senses—intense supernova flare that rips my retinas with brilliance real or imagined or somewhere in between. Who cares if our brilliance is out-shined by another’s blazing cleverness? Is the other choice not to create at all? To turn off our sweet little light so that we are left in the big cavernous dark, or worse to be left blind(sided) by another’s bright success?
Can you see me right now? Look. Listen. Be here. My breakfast is in front of me set on a white plate with a black rim—alabaster yogurt piled high with delicate fresh raspberries and crunchy brown walnuts, along with rich strong black coffee poured into an earthed-brown mug pitted with the potter’s ghost-fingerprints. I love the taste of color—round fat blueberries, strawberries bursting juice and tiny seed, peppery radishes, silky dark chocolate, sour limes, and the blackberries I pick in my mountain cove until my fingers are stained purple-black. The shades coat my tongue and recall the hues of salty, tangy, sour, the bitter and the sweet. I want to say to you: “Isn’t this glorious? Isn’t this what life is all about?” So I do, with words and images and hope. Can you hear me? Knowing you read me makes the Alone pulsate with a vibrating hum and a searing flash—Pulsar!
Oh but yes there are days I want to experience our writing world as I see others write and experience it. My process is: sit, write; the story comes out in all its pieces and parts and color-shades, and even grays that mark the sad. When asked for the plot, I never have a quick answer. I do not think in plots; they appear as an immovable Black Wall. Instead, there is a Pollock painting of dripped colors in a mad glorious chaotic rush. I’ve tried to write in a paint by numbers way and—no. I’ve tried to outline in pencil and then color it all in—it’s a Picasso! [Read more…]