son of the muse
Writing is interesting... for me, my mood is very determinate of whether I'm going to enjoy writing, and also, the way I'm going to write. If I can't enjoy it, anything I do happen to jot down is going to be garbage. If I have something to say, I can usually crack out an opuscule in a matter of moments... but some of the most spontaneous and creative and interesting things I have to say come at times when I am only writing because it's something to do. If I'm not too distracted, not too emotional, then the muse is generous enough to encrust my canvas with a spectral pallette. And, as the term suggests, as it was coined, the results are often super-natural, with obviated inclinations toward multi-faceted color theorum. Incorpreity... most of the time, whether I envision a clear goal, or am just surfing on a wave of mutilation, the direction of my diction is pre-occupied with creative revelations of the past. I enjoy rhythm, I enjoy verbosity, I even enjoy meter to a degree. For instance, in articulating this particular body, all I had to work with was a complete absence of anything to work with. There have been a few times when I have managed to exploit this fact, but most of the time, if I have nothing to say then I am completely unable to say anything. As I began churning out the bare bones of my realization, I entered into the creative mindset I am usually in when I am writing, where I become shamelessly careful in dictating the contours of such a body as this one, paying specific attention to word choice. When I say "shamelessly careful," I mean that I am actually rather careless, but I like to use "big" words. The result is that many words appear in separate pieces, over and over again. I believe the combination of poetic abstracts with the high-minded exploitation of my vocabulary results in a very specific voice that is not only mysterious, but also revealing... it is articulate enough to convey the concrete, but is elusive enough to beg the audience for their undivided attention, even to ask questions, thus expressing their interest. Most of the time, this is not the result, but I chalk that up to the probability that most other people just aren't that interesting (no matter how much oppurtunity they are given to make up for their dead-pan self-satisfaction). Honestly, I am unclear as to how an interesting person could be anything but interested in these words. I have to concede that this particular marriage of water and dirt, mixed with the utter lack of social grace, on the part of the rest of the universe, results in a fixation, on my part, with this marriage. In other words, I find myself writing in this particular voice on many occassions, simply because no one has ever expressed interest, sufficient enough for my to gather a sense of closure. As unfortunate as that is, I am lucky enough to strike creative veins often enough to manage some form of expository expedition, in writing, even though such exploration is predominately guided by an inordinate fascination with the past.