05/21/2016

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I am “growing into” the idea and image of a writer’s life. This is slow and not entirely comfortable, but the discomfort and distance are gradually diminishing. When I was doing my art, young and in college, and even more so when I took it up again forty years later, everywhere I looked I saw art – compositions of line and shape and color, patterns taking form like poems of vision. Everywhere I looked, I saw art offering itself.

Now that I’ve begun to seriously write, everywhere I look I see words and stories; they form into pictures and colors and thoughts and rich feelings, manifesting in this form. But now I am making more than pictures or pieces of visual art; I am building something, or at least that’s what I’m seeking to do, or it is seeking me.

Writing this book, I’m building a dimensional structure that has volume and depth and spaces that can be inhabited or traveled through– places that someone else can journey through, not with me of course; it is too late for that, but after me.

When I read about Vincent van Gogh’s life, I could feel the deep existential loneliness of it. He was given so little, except genius. Very little skill or aptitude for navigating the physical world, but instead an astonishing soul and inner life that tortured him and demanded to be expressed.

And so he did that – expressed his gifts into his life and his world that so tragically rejected it, and rejected him. He had a few artist friends who respected him, even though they were as puzzled by his nature as everyone else was, and a brother who was probably the only one in his life who ever loved him. All of the others living in his world, in his time, could not understand or accept either his mind or his art. Now the whole world does, and his paintings that were all unsold in his lifetime, now are sold and resold and resold for hundreds of millions of dollars.

“It’s just as well,” my grandmother would say (who was very wise). He couldn’t have handled the strain, the challenges, and the emotions of success or fame; he could barely handle (and some would say not) the small solitary life he had, in the physical world, because his soul’s life was so immense.

He was never comfortable in his body or in his identity as an artist. I am not yet comfortable with the identity of “writer” as a life purpose, but I recognize that it has claimed me. I know my soul is in on this, and resistance will ultimately be futile and only waste time. And so, for better or for worse, I surrender.


05/20/2016

more I see

This morning the sky is blue, but winds are heaving massive branches of the big oak tree, swaying them up and down, side to side in waves. A storm is coming.

I love to sit at the window with my morning coffee and my thoughts. It has been almost 5 years since I retired from the hospital Emergency Room where I worked for two decades, and yet it’s still an incredible luxury not to have to drag myself out of bed at 5:30 in the morning, throw myself together, and rush to work before 7 a.m. then work at high intensity and high-speed all day and come home both wired and dog-tired. My first action was always to kick off my shoes at the door and collapse into this same chair by the window to wait for my racing pulse to slow down, as I watched the twilight falling. On the days I worked at the hospital, I never saw the morning. On the days I didn’t work, I slept late, till 9 o’clock, and still missed the early light, so lovely, so gentle, and so quiet.

I’m writing the chapters about ER now. There are so many stories, and each one has its own message. The more I write, the more clearly I can see myself and the people who have walked part of the path of my life with me, or simply passed through the periphery of it. And the more I see, the more compassion I feel, for all of us.


05/06/2012

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by Victoria Chames, ©2011, reprinted by permission from the Blog: http://MoreAboutThis.wordpress.com
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You can’t write poetry on purpose. You can write verse, but that’s not poetry. Poetry when it’s real, is a thing that happens to you like love. You can’t make it happen, and you can’t stop it from happening. When it happens to you, it’s a gift, and you can either accept it or refuse it and walk away empty.

There are “forms” of poetry, like haiku, the sonnet, the epic poem, the quatrain, etc. People have tried to tame poetry and catch it in various kinds of boxes. It is less alive though, in captivity. It likes to have room to dance naked under the moon.

Poetry isn’t always beautiful and delicate, and it doesn’t have to be about love — just about Life. Life with a capital L. Poetry can be gentle or wild. When Carl Sandburg wrote about Chicago, literary critics were first shocked and offended. His poetry wasn’t about shepherd-boys and maidens on idyllic hillsides of wildflowers. It was about the meatpacking factories and iron foundries and train yards. It was exploding with Life.

No true poet makes poetry. It’s not a talent like a skill or craft, (though that could help.) When it comes, if it comes, it comes as a sudden gift, like a fluttering rush of startled birds taking flight. You can only catch a glimpse of it, and write down what ever you can capture of it. If you’re good with words, you might hone them a bit to better catch the picture of that moment, so somebody else might see it more clearly.

Poetry should create a real image in the mind of the reader or hearer. If there is no picture, that’s not poetry. It should bleed the feeling from the heart of the writer to the heart of the reader. If you read it and you don’t feel anything different, that’s not poetry.

The main thing about poetry you can always recognize it by is this: It’s always true. It’s not made up, and it doesn’t apologize for its honesty.

Poetry should capture something, and hold it, so it can be seen again, or felt again, by more than one human being. There must be something in it that is at the same time uniquely personal, and yet deeply recognizable by another human being who does not know the poet at all, and yet knows the feeling by heart.


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