Archives for the month of: March, 2015

vacuous white page
stares, glares, and insinuates

At least a blank stare is innocuous. Fairly harmless. It generally says more about the person wearing it than the person on the receiving end. Generally.

But a blank page? Oh that’s a look filled with venom. It speaks volumes about the writer facing it. Blank white rat bastard.

Writing is so much easier if you actually feel you have something to say.

I usually try to leave myself a hint. A whiff of a plan when I stop my writing practice for the day. And if I don’t write for a day? I’m a little slow the next day.

Two days away from the writing? I limp to the computer.

Three days or more? I’m nearly catatonic with the brain’s equivalent of constipation.

Where is the brain bran?

How to get going again?

This haiku was written on one of those nights when I felt I couldn’t possibly think of anything to say – and when I looked to the blank page for encouragement, insight and/or inspiration – well that’s when I got the above.

Ironically, it served to remind me that there is power in the discipline. Showing up is half the battle. Being willing to take a turn or two around the dance floor with some clunky word dance partners is all part of it.

Can’t knock it out of the ballpark every time. I remind myself.

The last few days, the blank spots in my writing diary? They feel the same as the big open vastness of the blank white page.



Sometimes coaxing out the ideas is like trying to catch feral cats. It’s dangerous, they’re fast, and they can shred the hell out of you with their claws.

White page with a stare that insinuates I’m incompetent. Yessirree. There is nothing like a big ol’ case of writer’s block. Nothing like writing a bunch of drivel to make you feel like an idiot for trying.

Yep. The Blank Page and the Inner Critic? They’re in cahoots. Two cheese monkeys sharing cheap, shitty beers and stale pretzels in a dive bar at the intersection of Subconscious and Self-Esteem where the streetlight flickers on-off, on-off, on-off in a Morse Code SOS headed Uptown.

What a gig those two jokers have going…

peripheral glimpse
rainbow slick unconscious flash
slippery fish dreams

This morning, my dreams are slippery fish. Standing knee deep in the water of my dream consciousness, feet planted in a pebbly riverbed, toes digging into the more sandy spots, still firmly planted in sleep, yet my head is out here, firing on sips of coffee, my pen poised to dart in after those rainbow flashing fish.

I see them in my periphery. Undulating slick rainbows, biding their time in the current. But whether I am to slow to catch them, or the water distorts their location, when my pen touches paper, the fish dart away.

I re-focus my attention elsewhere, the rainbow slippery flashes again in my periphery, perhaps if I don’t look at them straight on, I will land one out here on paper – my pen the fishing spear.

This morning, however, there is no dream catch to pen in my journal – only the phrase, “slippery fish dreams.” Perhaps tomorrow I will plate a fine dream image on the perfectly white page of my journal, capturing a vision brought to me by the me that is deeper than Now, truer than True. The self that knows I Know, the self that IS… and I will feed my insatiable curiosity to know more about the vast internal landscape of my beingness.

softly pelting us
tiny palo verde leaves
achieved their message

The sky was heavy gray and seemed as if it might impart some rain. A capricious wind blew, a conversation with those who would listen. The air itself was ripe with words it had imparted. Fresh, perfume, abundance, insistence and texture.

We met in the morning to walk in the desert botanical garden. Always a favorite place, it seemed especially vibrant this morning. Everything was so interesting, I found myself distracted by the textures of the plants, rocks, colors, the play between natural and man-made. Out came my phone with its camera and I became obsessed, trying to capture the depth of the colors, the vibrancy, a different kind of conversation from the one I was having with my friend, one that was happening in front of my eyes. I felt badly for being so distracted – it was a cocktail party for my senses… Everywhere I looked I saw conversations I wanted to listen in on.

glibHere: A newly constructed wall provided a place for the glass tile to assemble into glib patterns while spiky cacti murmured daily news in front of them. There: A sharp-tongued cousin of Aloe asserted herself while a stoically silent rock barrier looked on. Yonder: A statuesque wall, clad in the most simple yet elegant gray velvet evening gown adorned with a stunning, delicate vining purple flowered necklace, coolly assessed the crowd.

bananaBanana shaped flowers in Pucciesque mini-dresses shouted for and captured the attention of the bees. Gregarious striations on an aloe edged out all nearby discussions. Meanwhile, the barbed comments of another bored the leaves off its neighbor. And tucked into a nearly forgotten corner was a once-bloomed wall-flower atop a voice that spoke the secrets of the seabed.

We walked among these conversations, my friend and I, and when it came time to go, our host, the wind, lifted a finger, and a symphony of tiny leaves showered their compliments on our faces and we knew it was time to leave.