Inspiration

What happens? In between moments of pure exhilaration where the ideas flow faster than I can type and I worry about all of the ideas I am losing as I furiously try to jot them down, to those moments where every last bit of creative inspiration seems to have been mysteriously sucked from my veins. Today is one of those days. In fact it seems it has been a string of those days. My motivation to read. to write. to be inspired. all seem to have gone missing. I would be very worried except this has happened before, but it forces me to wonder where do those thoughts go? Should we seek inspiration within ourselves, searching deep for emotions gone missing? Should we seek inspiration from others, hoping their insights will remind us what lies hidden in ourselves? Should we seek yet another outlet? At times it seems writing makes so much sense to me. I sit down, I create, I feel and at the end of it all I have turned my own life questions and emotions into some sort of piece that others can read. This process, the act of putting my thoughts out there into the world has some sort of therapeutic quality. Putting the words out there finalizes them, secures a place for emotions, where one day I make look back and reunite with past questions/thoughts/feelings. At other times though, writing leaves me frustrated, uninspired and makes me feel worse than when I began. On those days I run. I find running therapeutic because it is one of the most absurd things ever, but also one of the most meaningful. To spend an hour off running, and arrive right back where you started. To run down the same roads you drive or bike but see them in a different light. Running reconnects me to the present, to my breath, to every step....and for me, a person who often spends far too much time in the past or the future those moments of "present" are the very moments I need more of.

Really? Forever?

Really? Forever?
Her normally strong voice suddenly quivers
The small tears welling up in the corner of her guys
Give away the pain she so deeply hides
I have no explanation
All I can say is
I too have those moments
They suddenly emerge
Puncturing my normalcy, reminding me that
A wound so deep may heal, but you will forever bare the scar
And like new skin, this new sense of self is different
Despite the years that may go by, this piece will forever be different
Sometime it catches you off guard, lifting your shirt off to go for a swim
A friend may startle you, where did you get that scar.
Its like that. Sudden. Abrupt. Right when you least expect it.
Its then you realize. This healing you thought was over. Its not.
Healing. For some reason we assume healing is a return to normal.
But just as that piece of skin will forever stand out, will never fully integrate itself with the whole.
So too. This wound, will carry with it the story of pain.
The scar then is not the bodies way of healing. It is the bodies way of telling a story.
If it wanted to heal, it would never be visible.
But no. The scar. It tells a story.
And we each have a story, our wounds, though deep and hidden.
They serve to remind us of the pain. Our vulnerability.
And thats all I can say.
It does not make sense. It does not help the pain.
This wound will forever be there. It will remind me at moments I least expect.
That there are things beyond my explanation. That I have been to the depths of sadness.
But I have emerged. I will not be the same. I will not understand forever.
And somehow with all of that I will just have to be. Be me. Be scared. Be hopeful. Be confused.

random thoughts

a quote i found recently that i thought made a good point:

"The simple possibility of achieving that which we desire causes the soul of the common man to be filled with guilt. He looks around, and sees many others who have not succeeded, and so he thinks he does not deserve it. He forgets everything he overcame, all he suffered, everything he had to renounce in order to come this far."

Also I was struck by a passage in Deleuze about the refrain in music...as he points out the refrain is just that a repetition of that which we already heard, but each time we get to the refrain we hear it differently (as we are a result of what came before it) and also are about to embark on a new journey for the next piece after the refrain will be new. Viewed in this way the refrain is kind of like life. Each day is resembles repetition (some days more than others) you know the usual wake up, eat, shower, work, lunch, procrastinate, break, eat, run, study whatever. The point is though that we have two choices: first, we can let the refrain be mere repetition, not alerting ourselves to how we have changed and the possibility for changes that emerges with each day. second, we can look at the refrain, the repetition, as a small bit of the puzzle, serving as that piece which we are both familiar with, but which we approach each and every time with new experience. In a good piece of music the refrain is central and a good artist turns mere repetition into a musical experience. And that I guess is the aim of life, to view the refrain as music not mere repetition. Did that make any sense....or am I asleep at the keys?

another memory

bear with this post it is kind of a flow of thoughts that I had hoped to turn into a story, for now Ill just post here in its very rough form....

The airplane ride from California to New York was like no other. In some way he stood in this hybrid space. Suspended over the interior of the US, no longer in California, not yet in New York there was still the potential that this was a false alarm, there was no room for reality at 30,000 feet. Instead he sat and wondered. Do any of these people know. Does anyone on this plane have a clue? To them I look like just some guy going back to New York. Little do they know that I have just suffered an immeasurable loss, my life though normal at this suspended moment would forever be different once I stepped off that plane. No one prepares you for the day when you have to bury a parent. No one prepares you for how it feels to be flying home, and yet knowing home will never be the same. There are no words to measure the time it takes to go somewhere when you are already there and never will be there at the same time. And this is how he felt. He knew what awaited him upon disembarking from the plane, but here amidst the clouds one was left to wonder if maybe upon landing things had changed, there had been a mix up, something anything. There was not a rational thought running through his head, and he knew this, but hope overrides rationality any day. In stead he dosed off, stared, contemplated, did anything he could to in order to fill this 6 hour trip with something.

Stepping off the plane the cold New York air hit him hard. It took his breath away and it somehow felt that the cold air was a warning. Go back it said, get back on the plane and pretend this never happened, there is nothing here to see. Pressing on he walked the cold corridor from the plane to the baggage claim, anxious, nervous, unready. Those last few steps, he saw the revolving doors and he saw the face of man unready to give the sort of explanations and condolences he had to. He saw the face of a man that also seemed to wish he would go back so that he would not have to see his sons heart break. He saw the face of a man who knew that he could no longer protect his son, that he would have to see his son hurt, he would have to let this pain take him and have him. He had never seen his fathers face like that before. The normal airport smile, the normal bright eyes. But no, those eyes were filled with the smooth film of pre tears, the head sunk as if trying to shoulder the pain for both of them. And then slowly as he emerged from the doors, the embrace. They both sort of fell into each other, lost for words, they did what came natural and hugged. In that hug each knew there was a pain beyond words, the cold embrace said more then they could ever say. His fathers embrace tried to apologize, it tried to make him understand, it tried one last time to protect and foster. The awkward small chat quickly passed as they stood watching each and every bag go by. Another cold walk to the car and then it was something he would never forget. For lack of words, for lack of knowing what else to do his father handed him the paper.

“Its right there he said” pointing to the small article at the bottom of the page of the Newsday that gave a brief and very sterile definition of the disaster. And at that moment it hit him. Just as the black type from the newspaper stained his hands, the cold reality of it all stuck to him as well. There was no more in between, no more wondering, there it was in cold black print. The beautiful life of a mother summed up in those few words.. “head on” “collision” “9:10” “December 9th” “fatal”. With those words he lost all hope, and it became clear that he was indeed going to have to face this. There was no mistake. This was no dream. This was cold hard reality. Welcome to the real world it whispered. He was lost. He was confused. He turned on the radio and looked at the morning sky. You have been gone 1 day already he thought into the air. And already it feels like too long.

running from who i am...becoming who i want to be

"Becoming isn't part of history; history amounts only to the set of preconditions, however recent, that one leaves behind in order to become, that is to create something new." -Deleuze

How do we remember? How do we forget? Where exactly is remembering located? How does our body remember?

So I am not literally running from myself if you will. The title of the post comes from a thought I had last night on a run. I have not run much in the past few years, instead relying on the cliche line I was a runner to justify who I used to be and who I could become should I want to. But after weeks of feeling that cool dark cloud of anxiety, sadness and pessimism descending upon me I found it time I better start running from who I am at this moment, to become who I want to be...running as my means of turning negative thoughts and emotion into positive energy with a little help from those exercise induced endorphins.

Running. My escape. My chemical of choice. After more time off then I care to admit, i laced up the shoes, threw on the IPOD and went for a run in the cool spring heat of davis. The instant I stepped out the door, memories of who I was quickly surged through my body. My muscles knew exactly what to do, my heart followed and my body was overwhelmed with the sense of confusion, it remembered in a way the runner I was while simultaneously giving into the runner I currently am, not quite as fast, or able to run quite as far. BUT that feeling was still there, in every step, cool sweat poring down in the evening heat, music blaring I felt alive, I felt happy and I felt content. The memory of runs long gone passed through me, the experiences, the highs the lows, it was all there memories unleashed with every foot strike. Blazing through streets (blazing being a relative term), I suddenly felt more of who I want to be and less of who I am. With every step my mind dropped the annoying academic debates running through my head, it dropped the anxiety, it dropped the doubt, it just was at that moment free to roam, to be to become. Mere chemicals, molecules flooding the brain as a result of the run changed my outlook, and gave me new perspective. Running reminded me that I am simultaneously not my past, and a product of my past all at the same time. It also reminded me that with every journey we start anew. I am not the runner I was, I may never be, but once I drop that sense of history I can become something new, a new me, a new runner, a new thought. So what is becoming? Its letting go of who you were, who you feel you have to be, and realizing that to create something new you need simply to act in the present.