I went to the library with my roommate Erik and I read some Kerouac. Found a book called The Portable Jack Kerouac and found some essays he had on writing. Pretty remarkable stuff. He had great tips and pointers, and he emphasized the great difference between the talented writers and the genius writers. The talented writers mimic what has been done, albeit very well, while the genius writers are innovative and original. They bring something entirely new to the table. This is not necessarily in the story; it is in the writing. The prose. He talked about how writing must come from the “jewel” center of the mind, honed in upon an object, and progress outward. No pauses must be made. No revisions to what was typed. For those express fear and shame over what was produced in the original writing. One must enter a trance in order to mimic the stream as best as possible and allow the unconscious its wordly manifestation. He even cited Freud and Jung as influences. Grammatical rules are not to hinder—do not be tied down by them. Let come what comes. The stream of thought—construct no dams. Allow it to flow, and ride with its tides. No thinking, for thought inhibits. I really agree with all of this. I see our influences as nearly identical—Buddhism, Freud, Jung, new adventures. I am like no writer as much as I am like Kerouac. His words connect with me and show me I am not alone in my thoughts that words flow from some spiritual center we have within us. The greatest writing comes from the moments of greatest connection, for nothing in those moments stands between you and yourself.
With all this in mind, I wrote a reflection on writing in which I suspended my conscious mind and allowed an authentic flow to come forth. Here it is typed out…
Writing from the jewel heart center. We enter into a mode of entrancing proportions as we center on the object of our discourse and project out in our various directions, for once we allow for the highest degree of worldly transcendence we have cultivated so as to circumvent the terribly repressive forces of the conscious functioning mind, we lose all that can be said in uninhibited and total honesty. Forays into these outer layers as we hone deeper into our object are wilderness safaris, spotting animals and living creatures never before see and observing their inexplicable and mysterious existence. A writer is a scuba diver like no other. For unlike the most trained and skilled of divers, his is limited by nothing, whereas the diver we speak of plunges only as deep as his suit and oxygen tank allow for in his infinitesimal and ceaseless curiosity, preventing him from real glimpses of the true depths of the ocean. The writer bypasses these, for his form of diving flows and is fulfilled independent of all technology, allowing him to navigate uncharitable territory and live to tell the tale.
But any man or woman of intelligence knows that the words tell only a negligible part of the story, and the real meaning exists far beyond the words. Evocations, sentiments, images, ideas… these we seek, and these the writer offers us. We get glimpses into the furthest reaches of the ocean when we read Moby Dick; we see the most sincere of accounts of the stream of thought as we read Jake’s tale in The Sun Also Rises; we further our understanding of our own mind and our own capacity by reading the words of the greats, for we are all connected in this cosmic exploration of heights and depths that brings us to new lands previously unimaginable. The writer is the noble savage who tries to break free. See how many writers have turned to intoxicants as a way to free the flow of thought they feel pounding within the clutches of their minds. The time goes by and the pounding continues, worsening, until it attains a deafening degree, and Poe is able to write a stroke of genius as The Tell-Tale Heart. The savages puncture through and see the light of the other side. They know all is wrong with the human race, and they operate on the hope that they can communicate the necessary truths to salvage the losses. An unattainable goal for the individual, without a doubt, but a freeing exploration calling all to jump aboard the covered wagon, for the Frontier is so much still alive. The infinite frontier of infinit space is within the mind, and he who strives to break free will find the new ideas in new forms intelligible to new degrees as he flies onward aboard his spacecraft on faith and hope and trust and honesty. He will not be faltered by the intoxicants, he will not fall down that endless hill, he will not walk that dusty path that grows only dustier over time. For he will see that he is independent of them all, he is one, and no part of his functioning brain relies on the illusory liberation brought about by these foreign intoxicants. He needs no coffee to start his day. Only a pen, paper, breath, and the light of existence. For the music and rhythm flows beautifully in each new room he enters, and he opens his ear to hear the ceaseless and continual beauty.
Communication from the center, from the core, from the free-flowing world of purity that comes and goes and rolls alongside the restless changes of ocean winds. The cacti grow numerously in the desert; only the fool goes to hug it. Yet equal is the fool who runs from it. The wise man embraces its existence, breathes it in, and loves it. Loving every moment of pain, doubt, humiliation, and torture. For flying above all their vast expanses is the great eagle whose sight stretches toward distant lights of further towns. The writer sees the calling of the light; he hears the sounds the energy emits, and he follows. Follow the movements of the pen, dear friend, for ageless wisdom exists within the ink, only to be shared for those nestled in their slumber and unaware of this grand journey they are asleep within.
I know this has been a bit of a strange entry, but it is where my thoughts have been upon this day. To this point is where I have been brought!
