Wastebasket overflowing,
Reruns of that Shamwow guy *and every other 2am infomercial * on loop,
Inkwell’s full belly,
Temper tantrums flare
Empty pages,
Redrafting-->rambling-->rut-->repeat.
Silence, screaming
Banging forehead, *table * * wall *
Loose Ponytail, sweatpants, Wrigley’s spearmint, that millionth cup of coffee,
Optimism out the window
Clustering’s a crock!
Kenophobia kicking in…
We woke up late (a luxury we are most definitely NOT allowing ourselves to get used to). Breakfast with our brothers. Add a new guest couple, recently moved in, to the mix…blessings abound. Carbo-loaded, laughter infused, energy boosted and charged with caffeine (Turbo-style Turkish, of course), and we are ready to greet this day.
Our morning swim across the channel has never felt so good. The current was strong, but we were stronger. The ocean’s pull was a welcome resistance, providing a challenge—something to shoot for and overcome…a goal. And, when we finished—fully spent—too tired for troubles—no energy left to waste on worry…we thanked Jah for all the cares castoff—collected now at the bottom of that salty sea—having slicked off our slight shoulders in the somewhere in between~
Morning melted into afternoon. Days here dally about; yet somehow we fill the time. Fellowship, peace, sunshine, and laughter—all merge as we go about our work in a moderate manner. Languid lengths of hours…merging into one 24 segment cycle.
Evening time now. Not yet night, and the morning having made its quiet exit long ago…the slight lull lingering in the space now left. What to do? Are we hungry? Not yet…the bountiful breakfast became brunch (and quite possibly will suffice for dinner as well if the fullness and satiety of our stomachs has its say). In fact, we can imagine its say would go something along the lines of: “lütfen! artık”….(“PLEASE, NO MORE!”) J We realize that we should probably write something today, but here at the hotel our family is such fun, not much penmanship or productivity is projected to occur. To town we go, then…
One dolma down (that’s a Turkish bus…and...after the first, we believe we may only “need” one, as our legs are suddenly not so tired anymore…* funny how claustrophobia, cramped spaces and odiferous aromas of various unidentified genres--and origins--can do that…*)…and we are deposited into the depths of the bustling, big town (try to contain your excitement..I know…it’s alot to take in all at once). From the one grocer, to the two main (and only!) drags, one really must pace themselves to absorb it all J
Okay! Focus, Ponopeople, we are writing tonight! Hmm…surveying the town square (which, we have to admit, is ROCKIN’ tonight!) we see that the town is represented in full force…all twelve of them. Woo-hoo *hands raised, fists pumpin’—fanfare *. Productivity and writing in mind, we skirt around the square’s edge in search of a place to perch our poetic awesomeness. There! Spotted!—a little corner of bench right by the sea…far enough away from the crowd, yet still enough atmosphere around to inspire—we have arrived! We launch into writing mode…Notepad: CHECK! Pen: CHECK! Lucky handmade ring from Ari: CHECK! Water: CHECK (hey, this writing can be tough..one must stay hydrated!) Black and white spotted feline friend avec notebook: What the (C)HECK?.... and enter our new kitty co-pilot. * Fabulous * just wonderful…now, if we could just have you, Miss Kitty, scoot over a * tad * …so we could * maybe * just see one corner of our paper…yes, thank you, that would be SUPER…* sigh*~
After humoring the little furry freeloader (yes, we fed her too….such pushovers), we sent her on her way, and set our focus back to work. Pen poised, we pondered plot, characters, setting, rising action, falling action, and climax... * as in, the head trauma we just underwent as the band of biker boys, avec little sisters in tow..avec SPLAYED SOCCER BALLS…awesome! BUMP THAT—literally (we are assuming they had the same idea…) * sigh *~ As we turn to give them all an EVIL “Hey what the HOO?” glare-with-a-nostril-flare!---our eyes rest upon the cutest, most adorable, infectiously endearing imp that we have ever seen. * Goners *…..we smile despite ourselves—In that instant the throb of our (now dinosaur egged) heads dissipating.
* Sigh…* ...* smile *... *sigh *…..Resigned, we allow ourselves to revel in the rambunctious rowdiness that is now enveloping us. Looking around at this tribe of tiny Turkish Tarzans, we know we are surrounded…we drop the pen, and reach for our camera (our own version of raising the white flag)… and surrender, swept up in the silly sounds and sweetness of youthful bliss….we are being held captive-ated~
I have been remiss in writing for awhile. Mea Culpa. I believe that most of my thoughts regarding this were simply that I was too busy with life and living to take time out to write. This thought pattern has caused me to think upon what exactly I see the role of writing as playing in my life.
I remember when I was at University, I saw myself as writing to live. Writing was my sanity in times of distress, my companion in lonely hours, and my saving grace when all else failed me. On those days when all seemed to overwhelming to process, I could sit down at my desk--delve into my thoughts, pen my frustrations, and trudge my way through the murky waters of life armed with what I saw as my only appropriate ammo--*bring out the Bic guns...* I realize many would say that this is a frightening position to find oneself in--being so dependent upon writing as a source of solace and stability. I would agree.
Knowing this, I always believed then, that the ultimate goal would be to convert the pattern of “writing to live” into “living to write”. I would have peers who seemed to eat, sleep and breathe writing. They voraciously read books, and intelligence, wit, and candor seemed to ooze out of their every pore. I loathed them (okay, maybe they just really, really irked me…) These peers could be overheard on a daily basis waxing eloquent about their next literary masterpiece, or how many pages they had written in their upcoming manuscript. And, to be sure, when all was finished, and the fruit of their labor was unveiled…it was almost always sheer genius and superbly divine. Yes, those that lived to write…as if it was inextricably tied to their very essence of their being…were indeed talented….yet I was not one of them. I *still* am not one of them…although I have often tried to be. I find that, although I enjoy the creative process of writing (and the literary, evolutional journey of reading as well)—I do not crave these things with an insatiable appetite. Although I, too, am able to pen semi-coherent and (albeit sporadically) thought-provoking workmanship, I have no illusions that Alfred Nobel will be knocking down my door any day soon. No, I do not live to write...
Today, in the wee hours of yet another crisp, Hawaiian morning….I am outside watching the sun rise over the jagged cerulean waves. I am waking--writing this small entry--musing, seeking, hoping, wondering---*being*. I think I am one that will just live AND write. I will not master either most likely, to the point that it embodies all that is within me…neither will probably overtake the other due to its sheer genius or notoriety—or even stellar quality. But, this morning, I am starting to see small glimmers—beginning to believe—awakening to a new awareness, that sometimes having a little of both (in so many areas) is best. “Just” living and writing can be more than enough—and this "place" is where I find myself...and make my home today.
