Writing Without Cleverness
Sometimes I feel this deep restlessness in regard to writing. It's not a new feeling. I've felt it on the edge of my teeth for years now—this greasy feeling. When words swell too much with the meanings located in stale, commonplace contexts... and I want to throw off their thick rough cloak and reveal... not just another layer... but the growling, bare-teethed heart of it all. So sharp that it tears off all the stories of separation our world is awash in.
So tender. So unafraid of being not clever. Cleverness—a habit I picked up as I grazed academic writing—it was long before that, wasn't it? What have you taken on that bears you away from the white hot center of your own need? The most urgent, the most un-clever need of all is the hunger for connection to the universal, beating heart. No distraction can distract us away from it. Every distraction tries to succeed.
To go beyond cleverness, then. Is this a good question to frame about a piece of writing: whether it opens, extending in a space beyond cleverness? There is no beginning nor end to the Void. And yet, the ordinary psyche knows so well to pull back at the faintest flicker of (its) death.
Another question to ask myself when writing: Am I copying someone else's style sheet, thought forms—or letting myself interact with the forms that are arising out of the interaction of this moment with space?
How do I strip off everything I've known? All of it?
Perhaps I want to make a distinction between the knowns that take my breath away with how familiar they are—in such an epistemic relational process, I find I am recovering something of myself—and the external influences that beglamor, and seek to shift me away from my authority.
I know all too well words can create vibratory ladders. It is easy to shift them this way or that. Words can be easily promiscuous—subtle shapeshifters where something stirs just out-of-sight. It matters—the intent we bring to words. Where is our gaze resting, what has it entangled with?
Words—as crutches—can crush. May our words be bridges. Words can be exceptional connectors between personal consciousness and source consciousness.
What brick walls need to fall down to make way for all of these links?
Words have often been the tools of the architects of false realities, fear-based realities.
For words to be bridges—between silence and that other place—always becoming, divine, the source from which potential comes into form—they must be hard-won, like pressed coal. Not cleverly thought out. Nor artless. In contact.
Remember the lioness who has to live out her life in an arena that is already too small for her? Don't be like her.
Writing is a way of materializing self. Not a pre-existing self. A self that is streaming with the earthstream and starstreams. With the waters of life.
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