Shibboleth

The nature of the creative mind induces one to consider various scenarios. Indeed, to craft the circumstances that the characters of a story would navigate, conjure the colors of a painting, or the arrangement of stones in one's garden requires this sort of evocation. With everything we do, it is human to seek validation.

I think to presume too much? Or something like that.

The nature of this blog precludes my most private thoughts on the matter from being displayed. I have chosen to seek a sort of creative acceleration through certain methods, ways of granting my mind a contrivance both social and convenient of garnering creative impetus. This involves risks, and that I trust the people I choose to share my material with.

A recipe for disaster if I step wrong, even once.

Not everyone delights in risk-taking and putting themselves in potentially perilous situations. It is not in my own nature to trust other people. Generally, people just mess up, let you down, and engage in things both stupid and futile. Thinking you've found people devoid of the same human weakness is as blind as assuming that anyone (self included) is immune to such weakness.

So one takes the paranoid road to create in seclusion or they choose to believe in people like they would want to believe in themselves.

Would this lead one to consider the tangible elements of Faith? I love to put these things into context when I write. Sort out my feelings and look for answers by seeing things through the eyes of fictional characters, people without a stake in the real world. To totally escape. More to the point I often consider if anyone gives what they do this much thought. From the outside the appearance of such can be deceiving.

Most seem to operate purely out of a motivation for money.

A few seek to be validated by someone that is supposed to love them.

Yet more want desperately to be recognized for their efforts.

Approval. All.

Does this make everyone who would create something beautiful to watch, read, or view an attention seeking reprobate with a hole inside that can never be filled? Probably. Even if someone seeks to achieve some ethical high ground beyond those simple desires, it is itself a product of someone seeking the attention of a higher power?

So, the desire to create comes from emptiness? Because someone sees an empty space, of feels one for that matter, they are driven to make something to fit? Perhaps sorrow isn't the creative fuel I thought it was. More to the point, sorrow is probably just the sidecar to whatever is driving a creative person to make whatever they desire to make.

Misery loves company.

I love those studios, jewelers, and similar that have windows open to the street. There was a place in Portland where you could watch, from the sidewalk, the short order cooks flip flap jacks. As much as people likely enjoy the outcome of the creative pursuit, watching the graceful agony of creating things of worth is likely just as enticing.

Am I my own all consuming train-wreck? A vision I cannot take my eyes off of?

These thoughts swirl in my mind questioning the format of everything I've done in the last four months. I wonder if my methods are granting me short term clarity while obscuring my somewhat longer term future. The paranoia and stress that comes with working with people, my own eating and sleeping habits, the scrutiny (or lack thereof) that comes with involving those close to me in my most personal affairs.

I have made other people carry my burdens too much already.

Writing some stories should not carry this level of complexity. Grappling with the process of creating fiction shouldn't make me doubt the very essence of Truth. Finding the final medium for my work shouldn't require that I strain my relationships, my time, or my sanity the way it has lately. The endlessly delaying the distribution of simple world building exercises from people that likely just want to help me? In exchange for a few hours of being entertained, warm laughter, and hotter coffee?

Doubt setting fire to paranoia, fanned by the winds of anxiety, tainting everything I do.

Making me write pointlessly circular entries to my Blog. Never getting answers to questions that probably have no business being asked. Seeking solutions that only peal back the layers of a flawed methodology that somehow works without such blackened examination. Considering courses of action that are themselves a quiet violation of my own life long means of operation.

Doing things just to do things. Giving meaningless things meaning. Talking to hear my own voice. It just seems to get more pathetic the more I think about it. I couldn't even isolate what "it" is if I tried.

Oh well, merrily on my way.