The average Joe, Moe or Arroe on Halloween Day, not a race to place but a mid-fall nestle next to a different pace; never a need to liberate but an agreement to feed not the desire but willingness to paint without acrylic a single word or several haunted by the lack thereof.
To a writer…silence is the beast.
Assumption locks the passerby onto an street named “Easy to Bleed” when in fact the man, woman or child holding the writing instrument can’t explain the arrival of phrases sent through the veins of empty spaces; for it’s the eyes that convince the prints left by fingertips that the heart requires music but not what radio plays on dusty workdays when being set free would be the best way all too many sell out for.
The cavern’s cut from the soul of a thinker devours ink like BBQ sauce cuddles the ribs tickling your tummy on any given Sunday. To quickly wipe from sight hides the strength of what writers exchange for the opportunity is to do nothing more than bleed like raindrops parachuting from a cloudless sky yet it caught your wandering eye.
To choose to write is the core of my laughter.
Authors, lyricists, sports reporters and Presidential speech makers aren’t gifted with options; they do to do and when done some quickly run. To write is the only air you might get to tonight. To scribble like a child sometimes larger than hands on a clock doesn’t purify the reason but soothes the center of a region never spoke of because life on the outside never understands the presence of word shapes; until put in their language. To which I’ve never understood so I rely on proof readers to calmly invite the way of the poet to seek better ways to communicate.
If only you could see the way it was meant to be! Not really; too many have made up new names for me. Great friends believe my biggest faults are found in my writing because you can’t see the expressions that create wrinkles in my forehead while curving the tips of my cheeks resembling a middle aged smile from the heels of realism and not taught by radio program directors that preached, “It’s not what you say…it how you say it…” so I fake laugh a lot!
That’s my Halloween haunt! My laugh is no better than a beady eyed witches with a big hairy lazy faced werewolf that’s been redesigned by a Twilight writer to hate Vampires.
In Batman Jack Nicholson asked, “Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?”
He, she or “it” that swiped it from thin air while the ghost was looking elsewhere was honestly asking, “Have you ever found yourself in a horrifying situation when no one is around to assist?”
Completing a writing project! Ouch!
No doctor not even a brain surgeon will touch the gritty edges of where the writer has been.
It’s completely natural to want to hide!
Casting thoughts like stones skipping through the morning sunrise of an even flowing stream or lake is but the fantasy.
Writing as a profession, hobby, game or shape of communication makes funny waves inside invisible days for travelers commanding to be covered by fleece blankets that reached outward at Wal-Mart begging shoppers to take them home for a self deserved moment of aloneness.
Lost or disconnected isn’t any place, rhyme or reason for the reader to think the one sharing is in a safe place; even Darth Vader became weak. Obe One Kanobe sacrificed his journey for Luke to grow.
Artist Way author Julia Cameron was the first to speak directly to me about the middle of the night itch that couldn’t be scratched; the ill feeling of never reaching complete; the emptiness that Krispy Kreme’s could never fill or the horrid delivery of learning all that energy wasted was because being a perfectionist is the wizard holding the gun.
Julia didn’t pour great wisdom into a coffee cup or open a gate for enlightened feelers to skate across frozen empires offering tingles like a weekend beer buzz.
Julia wrote, “Forgive yourself.”
You have the right to write.
At no other time during the chapters of world history has writing been more accepted than during The Great Social Media Movement.
Halloween costumes will never change.
The end result of not writing is far greater the scare than something weird and freaky crazy out there.
The best part about writing every day is holding the keys to a vehicle called “Unknown.”
Not knowing what I’m going to write about doesn’t scare me nor do the images of a faces I’ll never meet. It’s not important during an age of big banking money, 3-D movies and a video game kingdom that teaches teens to kill on our streets then we spend the rest of lives denying it.
What matters is the mystery.
Julia talks about painting a room. Take not what you know but what you have and share it with someone whose choice was to stop in for a brief moment.
To my left is a painting of John Lennon and his creative connections; it’s natural to think, assume and pretend to properly put into place reasons for such a painting; it’s a radio station studio; having the Beatles present is expected. Until you look beyond the writer and take note; four separate paths that happened to make harmony. It teaches me to trust new ideas from outside sources. But to write that will earn me an email, “Thank you Casey Kasum!”
It’s Halloween! Face your beast!
arroecollins@clearchannel.com
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