Sunday, December 13, 2015

Divinely inspired

Towerland, South Africa
The title of this post is the root meaning of the word "enthusiasm". Inspired by what is. Inspired by what is alive, what I am receptive to, what I am able to process and pass through me: perhaps, a pile of effluent (which, by pure definition, is a stream flowing out of a body of water ... which isn't that bad).

However, producing effluent for all the world to see - or ignore - that's the risk you take when you create.

In the interests of embarking on this new venture entitled "acting doggedly" (ie. sticking to a path of creativity that is writing ... not singing, dancing, plucking, photographing, reading snippets of everything, talking, travelling, drinking coffee, etc etc etc), I shall take a moment to reflect on writers.

Regarding writers who have inspired me ...

A handful jumps to mind because of the internal resonance that I feel with them, and because I would be glad to enact the kind of catalysing that they have brought to life for me. They are Jean Rhys, Doris Lessing and Robyn Davidson. A few others who have come up in the past have been Janet Frame, Nadine Gordimer, Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins and John Irving.

What is the commonality? What do they bring through their writing that I value?

They bring the truth of their experience. In particular, many of them are not afraid to depict the world through the prism that is an awareness of subtle sexism (or to bring up lots of the subtle unseen). I once heard a man (a member of my family, in fact) say that he couldn't read the word of female authors because he didn't understand their world view. Perhaps he was talking about the view that is able to perceive subtle sexism.

If you're a cis male, I guess that perception may be difficult to glean. And perhaps that's a whole audience who won't want to read my work - I don't know. Maybe no one will want to read my work - I don't know. But that is getting ahead and getting grandiose. Time to go back to ground and humble myself before the greatness of writers who have gone before me, and the divinity of inspiration.

What do these writers have in common? That have an arresting combination of a "fuck off" attitude and an almost embarrassing degree of vulnerability - an honesty about their own position in the world.

For example, the main character in Doris Lessing's The Good Terrorist is a woman who wants to be mother to the anarchists, while wanting desperately to rebel against her own mother. She wants to be a feminist, but her male partner constantly takes advantage of her kind and maternal nature in a way that she cannot see. She is sucked into the self-serving needs of her immature, barely house-trained comrades and forgets herself. She is reliving her mother's story, just in a different context. She is the most practical person in the movement, and sees herself as its saviour, but has no idea of the violent actions being planned within the movement. She cannot see what others see of her. And what others see of her differs from person to person - be they the overworked, underpaid handyman who has been wrangled into the cause - the only person with income from a job (bringing up the fraught conundrum of living in a capitalist market system) and the person seemingly with least self-worth. Or be they the queer couple, the tough one of whom is the most traumatised and skittish character on site. There is complex set of paradoxes in each character.

And in the main character, there is a struggle to be within the nexus of various political and social movements that happen to be pulsing through the timeline of her young adulthood.

Similarly, Jean Rhys ...

Ah gad. This feels like a Year 11 English assignment (which would be fine, except I found English stifling).

What I'm attempting to do is just describe my tribe, my literary Canon. However, my Canon isn't just about literature. It takes in visual art and bold statements, such as the simple concept of the photographic series depicting an Aboriginal kids' ministry, by Richard Bell, to re-imagine the priorities of this continent back to humanistic and environmental values. It takes in the majestic whining of Thom Yorke's voice as his heart seems to risk bursting out of his chest, something I luckily had a chance to emulate in a Hanoi karaoke booth with a bunch of French strangers once. It takes in the dances and songs of corroboree and the elemental powers they invoke. It takes in the stories of underground theatre and their disregard for approval by Norm.

It's all kind of subversive. It's all kind of being the plaintiff without apology. It's all shouting out but in a way that isn't just noise, in a way that demands to be seen and heard (by me, at least). Why does it demand to be seen and heard? Because of what it offers the witness: healing, resolution, solace, a feeling they are not alone in their dilemmas associated with being human now.

All of these forms of inspiration are related to creativity that taps into the universal mind, the mind that is not just I-me-my; the mind that is a much larger network, of which the I-me-my is a player, but not the whole show. The whole show is the universal mind, the society, the environment, the weather, the animals, the world, the universe. If that sounds like hippy shit, whatever, I don't care. We don't breathe without the wider world. We don't see without the wider world. We can't be heard without the wider world around us. Or the world within us. All of this is dawning on me consciously, gradually, though it probably has been there since long before I was born as such.

So, we come back to enthusiasm and divine inspiration. How to get beyond potential criticisms of too broad / specific. Too self-indulgent / impersonal. Too incomprehensible / boring. How to have the patience with myself to keep coming back to this flow of words / This sometimes staccato stop-start of words.

This is just the beginning, of practice. Practice will lead to greater and greater coherence, until I am ready to say something which must be heard.

It is all within and around me. The experiences I have absorbed in this lifetime so far are enough, let alone those to come as this practice begins and continues.

Continues - that word scares me. Continues - that is the vow, the commitment I must make to myself to honour the experiences - the deep grief, the paralysing self-doubt based on the memory of past "terrible" decisions, the unbearable freedom to make decisions that will be remembered as "terrible", the affliction of being interested in everything, being like an omnidirectional microphone. I honour all of these wonderful / awful things about myself by continuing, continuing to focus, practise, focus, practise. Turning up. Wrangling with my ancient computer. Turning up. Starting and finishing a soliloquy on a random thought. Turning up. Until discipline doesn't come into it.

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