Well, after a long day of translating (Russian, as it happens . . . ), I read this post . . . backwards. And then, I turned my office chair askance, so that I could write diagonally - anything to put me off my perch of assuredness or surety. Come at it oblique(ly), adjacent(ly), anything to allow it access . . . to me.
Well, after a long day of translating (Russian, as it happens . . . ), I read this post . . . backwards. And then, I turned my office chair askance, so that I could write diagonally - anything to put me off my perch of assuredness or surety. Come at it oblique(ly), adjacent(ly), anything to allow it access . . . to me.
In a way, it feels as though I'm a crucible, where things gather about me, *seeking* to gain entry any way they can. They, these ideas, these thoughts and visions, want to join us, have expression just as much as we want them to. It's a partnership, so all of that tweaking, writing and rewriting, pausing just before the next word feels a bit personal, but it's really not. We're working together, this thing, this draft or canvas or print on screen which is an expression of something else, and I.
And each one of us is, really, a unique crucible, where it happens and takes surprising turns available only to each of us individually, with perhaps some crossover or apparent similarities.
One way I've kind of worked out, over the years, is that there are two of me: one, the 'ego,' which is bit overcontrolling and all-knowing, and a lighter, more spontaneous inhabitant (of me) who gets to have a go whenever I let him/it. This (the latter one) is the one who, when presented with a piece of paper, has all kinds of new appearing. I don't really control it, although parts of me are aware.
Maybe those empty plastic bottles in the back of the car, all over the seat and floor, are meant to be there. Overcontrol, and the process may lose its vitality.
The other part to it all, whatever we do, is connection. This must be what all humans, in their various ways and activities, their choice of profession (what we 'profess'), are aiming for. Who does not want to improve, reach for the new, develop, become greater as a person, not in the Joneses' eyes, but in those of the Universe? Why write in the first place . . . ?
Sometimes it's like that VHS tape, it won't go in, but then, seemingly magically, there is a click!, and it's sucked into the VHS player, and a whole new atmosphere appears. Sometimes the revision, especially rewrites, are like that as well.
Something wants to turn me back, get me sitting in my usual pattern. It's comfortable. It's known. It may allow for connection, but if it's tied to the former (in the above description), it may not be.
Now, back to the glories of Russian Federation Ethics Committees and Principal Investigators.
This is a liberating, even healing, ecology.
Thank you to all who contribute, even by their presence, listening.
Well, after a long day of translating (Russian, as it happens . . . ), I read this post . . . backwards. And then, I turned my office chair askance, so that I could write diagonally - anything to put me off my perch of assuredness or surety. Come at it oblique(ly), adjacent(ly), anything to allow it access . . . to me.
In a way, it feels as though I'm a crucible, where things gather about me, *seeking* to gain entry any way they can. They, these ideas, these thoughts and visions, want to join us, have expression just as much as we want them to. It's a partnership, so all of that tweaking, writing and rewriting, pausing just before the next word feels a bit personal, but it's really not. We're working together, this thing, this draft or canvas or print on screen which is an expression of something else, and I.
And each one of us is, really, a unique crucible, where it happens and takes surprising turns available only to each of us individually, with perhaps some crossover or apparent similarities.
One way I've kind of worked out, over the years, is that there are two of me: one, the 'ego,' which is bit overcontrolling and all-knowing, and a lighter, more spontaneous inhabitant (of me) who gets to have a go whenever I let him/it. This (the latter one) is the one who, when presented with a piece of paper, has all kinds of new appearing. I don't really control it, although parts of me are aware.
Maybe those empty plastic bottles in the back of the car, all over the seat and floor, are meant to be there. Overcontrol, and the process may lose its vitality.
The other part to it all, whatever we do, is connection. This must be what all humans, in their various ways and activities, their choice of profession (what we 'profess'), are aiming for. Who does not want to improve, reach for the new, develop, become greater as a person, not in the Joneses' eyes, but in those of the Universe? Why write in the first place . . . ?
Sometimes it's like that VHS tape, it won't go in, but then, seemingly magically, there is a click!, and it's sucked into the VHS player, and a whole new atmosphere appears. Sometimes the revision, especially rewrites, are like that as well.
Something wants to turn me back, get me sitting in my usual pattern. It's comfortable. It's known. It may allow for connection, but if it's tied to the former (in the above description), it may not be.
Now, back to the glories of Russian Federation Ethics Committees and Principal Investigators.
This is a liberating, even healing, ecology.
Thank you to all who contribute, even by their presence, listening.
Yes, I like what you say about the ideas wanting to join us, wanting expression, and our job is to express them well.