I am still lost. Directionless. I strongly dislike this state of being. Each morning I rose and when it was time to write I sat at my uncluttered desk and closed my eyes and watched my characters act. I would open my eyes and type. Except for those wonderful moments when I was in a state of flow and would sit with my eyes shut, immersed in another world and my fingers would dance over the keyboard. When I opened my eyes I was shocked, no words had red dots underneath them. The passage perfectly transcribed.
Now in the mornings I feel choked in chaos. Objects sit around the edge of my desk, infringing on my space. I sit listening to music unable to construct in the silence. Yet all I produce are ramblings and half ideas that loop to something unrelated and back again. I thought perhaps I should try something different so I ventured into poetry. A way of writing that I have never studied or taken any notice of. Except for the lyrical poetry composed with music that are the songs who reach down inside me and capture my attention. So I tried, I even used pen and paper. My handwriting is ugly enough and adding words bastardised the experience even more. However I wrote and kept producing line after line. My pen plunged in and tapped into the virgin waters of an undiscovered stream which provided invaluable insight that permanently shifted my thinking a few degrees. Bad poetry yes, but enlightening all the same.
Perhaps that is what now is all about. Experimenting, sharpening my tools, learning by doing. A period of challenge for me and I feel called to go with it. Try new things each day, poetry, micro fiction, grand speeches, soap box lectures, soul baring pieces and even some superficial fluff. It all has a place and value and it teaches.
Of course in order for all of this to happen I need an outlet for my overwhelming desire for order and direction. Frankly after spending two hours reorganising the pantry I don’t want to take it out on the rest of the house. I am far too undomestic to keep that up. I pulled out the electronic piano keyboard. It was collecting an impressive layer of dust under the barely used guest bed. Like poetry, I play this instrument poorly. I never learnt as a child, too busy lost in my daydreams to focus in music class. However as an adult, many years ago, in another place, I took lessons and began to learn. Life, as it consistently does, stepped in, the keyboard shafted under a bed.
It has a place in my house now and when I am alone, I sit and play. I found the old music books, stashed away in my library, held onto for that whimsical one day. Well that one day is now. Playing is like riding a bike. I am moving through the pages quickly and confidently. I have order and structure and direction. I can see progress and have a clear objective. Finish these books and go find myself a teacher to learn more.
The other day I read that sometimes the best way to unlock one creative channel is to open another. I realised that is what I am doing. It may be early days, but I feel order is being restored. My writing flows better as I fumble through experimentation and after I am done with that struggle I sit at my other keyboard. And play beautiful music that reaches deep down and captures my attention.