wish Pan were real.
Yesterday ,in the day time of the night, I did something with my writing, something that blew my mind, Baby, oh yeah. Basically what I did was, instead of turning abstract “things” into concrete images, I turned concrete “things”: sound, smell and sight into abstracts. I turned a drive through the country into the state of our being as we dream. I like it. It wont be something I make a constant practice but I definitely will get good at this. You might say that I’m doing the same thing as before just explaining it differently, but no, I am not. The feel of the paragraph is different, the movement is not the same, and the subtleties are fucking amazing - subtleties which are so strong on their own it might not even be necessary for them to be consciously acknowledged. I like this a lot. I suppose I still have the beginning writer’s joy at the thought that my words will be inside someone’s, the reader’s, head. That means a lot to me. They will hear in their head the sound of how they believe my voice feel in their ear, not only that but the origin of the sound of my voice will be in the reader’s mind! I will be inside a reader’s mind, and when I consider this I try to multi task, stimulating the intellect as well as the emotions, the right and left hemisphere, the conscious and sub conscious. Actually the sub conscious is my favorite to stimulate. I don’t attribute my success in writing to be due solely to the stories, the plot line and twists, but more so to how I write to the reader about things we once knew but forgot, the life we knew before it got complicated. I like to think, in my prose we wander around with out maps , and rely on worn paths, sounds of the babbling water of a creek somewhere to the east, the side of the tree Spanish moss grows on, and the tightness in our calf muscles and the dilation of our eyes as the day wears on.