Mental Architecture


This is just another journal type entry, sorry, no creativity today children.  I found myself thinking about thinking today, about my ideas and the sort of vague candy-floss like morass that they often spin out of and I realized that my mind is a kind of scary wonderful place.  It is this place that has its own architecture, where Gothic cathedrals become glittering glass and chrome skyscrapers that become misty green and mysterious mountains that turn into forests of  pitted and blackened iron tress that becomes a…well, you get the idea.  It’s a freaking mess in there, all these bits and pieces of places I have seen or ones that I just made up all sort of welded together into this seamless array of corridors, stairways, doors, amphitheaters, hollows, nooks, crannies, valleys, waterfalls, oceans all running into and out of each other in such convolution as to make M. C. Escher want to go and take a lie down with a nice cup of tea and a cold cloth.  That’s just the beginning.

Along with the strange and madness inducing topography comes a legion of people that I have made up and are living in my head.  It’s getting to the point where I can almost understand what it might possibly be like to be schizophrenic to some degree as there are at least a dozen or so people sharing my head space with me at any given time and they all have their own desires, dreams, ambitions, flaws and they are always clamoring to come out and play, wanting to find their voices and tell their stories because without being told they are all just figments of my imagination and honestly if you had to live in the aforementioned mess, you’d want out pretty fucking badly too.

So here I am with this maze of ideas, in the complete dark looking for the end of the thread so I can find a path through them and out the other side with something that other people will want to read, that will maybe fascinate, disturb, delight, sadden, horrify, make laugh or any of the other things that I hope to get when I read something.  There in, as the good bard said, doth lie the rub.  I think that at least a part of the reason why I can’t seem to sustain an idea beyond the first twenty pages is due to the fact that a thread will look promising at first but will then lead to a dead end, or will encounter another that fires my imagination making me drop the one and run after the other until I am left with a whole bunch of unfinished stories and a great deal of frustration.  So very many things inspire me and live with me always, books I have read, bits of songs, whole albums, movies, conversations I have had, places I have been or seen, people, faces, bodies all hint at something, whisper, scream, cajole  and otherwise cause me both great joy and unbelievable anguish as I want to speak all of their names the way they should be spoken but just don’t have enough breath, or wisdom, or knowledge to make them whole and more than real on paper.

I have been asked on one or two minor occasions how I come up with my ideas for what I write.  I have always wanted to say that how is not really the question, nor is where I get them from or if I have trouble getting them, the real question is, what do I do with all the bloody things?  I suppose the only answer worth anything to that question is that I write them…and so I shall, painfully, slowly, maybe just a word at a time, but all of the voices will find their home.  They will have to, as I am evicting the little bastards.

Thank you all for listening, this has been a public dis-service rant brought to you by the last sane area of the author’s mind that isn’t currently squeaking and gibbering in the corner going “the horror, the horror, quack quack ole phtang biscuit barrel throatwobbler mangrove”.  The end

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One Response to “Mental Architecture”

  1. monimoni98 Says:

    I have tried to write , myself. And I always stop rather quickly, on account that I’m a reader, not a writer. As a reader I can devour 1000 pages in 3 days, and that’s with going to work and doing the household chores and anything else that needs doing on those days. The catch is the reading material has to be something I am a fan of. Therefore stuff like politics or ordinarily poetry , and just about anything educational were the books on my shelves that literaly creaked when someone opened one. Your posts, or the ones I was fortunate enough to find so far, are thought provoking in a way that didn’t interest me before. I have a list in my head of people that I think will enjoy reading these posts as well. I’m dieing to hear what my baby sister and my mother think . My mom got me to reading and thinking for myself at a very early age. I had tackled 4 or 5 King novels and Hubbards “Battlefield Earth” before my 11th birthday. I am aq huge Heinlien fan also most of his stuff was gone over repeatedly before I turned 16. Tolkien was another that got me thinking, and I believe he had my thoughts doing what your words describe. Personally I like when an author can get me to go places I had never imagined could exist. You have a fan for as long as you continue to let me read these posts. You can kickstart my feeble imagination anytime I log in and see you new posts. Once again thank you.

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