It was just before sunrise, on a morning many moons ago when I finally pushed away from my own self-doubt, and started writing again.
That bright and beautiful morning, as the sun crept just upon the horizon, with the moon opposite of her, I was mentally triggered by a memory of something a “crazy” friend once said to me over two decades ago.
Memory is funny fucking thing, is it not?
It was like some refrigerated flash of inspiration illuminating my soul in the middle of the night, and as my ears began to ring, I still somehow managed to remember his free advice word for word.
FREE ADVICE
What he said was this.
”Writing is—in effect—the act of validating the distance between ours dreams, and the reality of them all coming to life. And what we need is not necessarily an actual measuring—but more of a visionary—stick.”
Because you see, there is this little graphite spear, an instrument if you will, that has long been more powerful than any weapon this world has ever known.
It’s the instrument of the poet, the overworked chef, the misplaced scribe, the busy single dad, the mentally exhausted philosopher, and the less-educated scholar.
It’s the tool that when filled with lead and sharpened to a fine point, will indeed leave a mark on the heart and soul of the world via written word.
And it is because of this seemingly puny tool that we are literally able to flip the dream over, and stand reality on its weary little head.
But according to another creative friend who once said to me, “a hopeful person is the only authentic, yet crazy realist there is...”
So before we manage to dismiss such declaration as the ravings of a...well, a visionary, consider this If you will?
CONSIDER THIS
When writing, a writer has to understand himself and the message he wishes to convey via his story, and in order to do this, he should probably realize that his first obligation is not necessarily to feed the spiritually starving beast called humanity, but to nurture it instead with a long lost language some might go so far as to call the language of love.
And if and when a writer might find the balls to establish this simplistic commitment to the said language of romance and rebellion (and if he does so by taking the out-of-this-world risks that the creative relationship with his own true self demands), then he, my friends, is free to promote social betterment outside of the boundaries that his own heart and soul once required him to obey.
THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE
And so it was, that early morning long passed, I again began scanning the real world around me with measured intensity.
That was six years ago almost to the damn day. It was 2016, the year my so-called existential slash midlife crisis began.
Six damn years spent abandoning one thing after another, all because of the damn elephant in the room—the idea behind a little dream of mine.
So like a rogue train plowing full steam ahead upon the burnt out bridge of my life, I started casting out the freight, then the seats, and then finally the poor old damned conductor.
I managed to get rid of the weight of everything real—minus my own wandering thoughts—while taking on nothing really substantial at all, except for a fancy quote, and/or maybe a heartfelt poem or two.
But in the end, who really knows?
I though, as I am, have always believed that the words we speak out loud do nothing but evaporate into the nothingness of the air that we breathe, yet the words that we write down about all the silly little things we see and believe in, they are indeed left eternally etched upon this world to forever see.
So believe you me when I say, that if you’d like something to be remembered about your beliefs, yourself, or the beauty you see in anyone else for that matter, it has always been best to write it down.
Writing though, I have come to figure out over the past however many years, is just an exploration of the terrain of a soul. You start from the ground and climb on up as you go. And it’s often surprising where such a lovely creative journey will take us.
AND SO IT BEGINS
When I started writing again, everything around me seemed so artificially sweetened, synthetic, and way too goddamned watered down for my taste.
I felt like I was infinitely lacking something of clout. I guess when it comes down to it, you could call writing an authentic & existential experience because you’ll find your own ingrained boundaries, and you will cross them.
And I wanted to feel something real, and to do that I had to cross the creative boundaries of my own fear and doubt.
So I started putting together a plan that I had no clue existed for, ”A Love Creative.“
Mind you all, back then it was first a website called “Barstool Buddha”, and then came, “The Wilderness Within”, and now, well now, the rest they say is but, a lovely creative history;)
But little did I know way back then that what I was looking for so many moons ago, was as real as it gets, it was my own damned self.
And though granted, I am awfully aware that throughout the years I have probably sounded like I’m a few sandwiches short of a picnic. But what I lack in sandwiches, trust me when I say, I make up for with midnight snacks.
BUT THE REALITY IS…
But the reality is, as it stands today, I am only here to express my emotions and my opinions via poetry, storytelling, photography, and maybe touch your soul with the creative cuisine that I like to cook up here and there, be it a bit metaphoric or not.
I’m not necessarily here to save the world anymore, though in the beginning my ego might've been, but now I like to think that I am merely here to save myself, my own old soul, and maybe help provide others with what little bit of love and light I see in, and all around them.
AND KNOW THIS
And please know this, I appreciate writing for reasons most of y’all would not expect, and it is not because I think that I know more than others do, but because it was necessary to get down and dirty with the darkness within me, and to somehow extricate it via the light that surrounds me so to speak.
I had to try my hand at picking up the scattered dreams I’d left strewn all over the goddamn place throughout my life, and I didn’t know of any other way at the time, except by exorcising—what was then, and still very much is—a long lost textual passion of mine.
Yes, I had to find myself in a different style than I ever had, and by writing, I like to think I’ve found the core of my soul, but the moment I think that my demons come front and center & try their damndest to fuck up the whole scenario.
Such is a spiritually led creative life, is it not?
ONE MORE THING
I have one more thing to say about the ups and downs of writing before I walk deeper down this winding path into the depths of my wild and creative dreams.
I like to try and write every day.
But with my stubborn self I still fight every day. I play games with my own mentality day in and day out. I think and scheme and dream up thousands of hundreds little written inspirational daydreams, and just as well, I cook a helluva lot for a living.
Inspired words are often left piled up in the kitchen sink, run-on sentences clutter the countertops, I mince up metaphors and roughly chop some poetry and prose, then I finely dice a few adjectives up in the perfect shape and tense, just to toss it all into the saucepot of my soul.
I write with no recipe in hand, not one certainty, not even a promise to myself of what’s to come of the narrative next, or whether or not I have left a misplaced comma somewhere I shouldn’t have, and yet still, I do it, anyway.
I guess it’s who I am.
It’s the element of surprise that comes with writing that I cannot control.
It’s the freedom to be...the real me.
BUT…
But I also find that the act of writing can also be very excruciating and feel something like slavery at times.
I can go months on end without coughing up a few creative words, or I can go on a spree and write for two weeks straight, only to realize that the whole beautiful purpose of what I wanted to say, didn’t quite hit the mark in which, I was aiming for.
Just as well though, and to a fault, I adore the tenderness of writing, maybe much more than someone should.
Scribbling poetic meaning to the inconsistencies of the way I try and live my life is an actual piece of cake compared to going through the “emotions” of actually living it.
Insert mental picture of “Freedom Cake” here;)
And still I sometimes ask myself on a consistent basis, have I really let writing and my emotions fool me—and what I really feel—for so damn long?
Am I doing the right thing?
A LINE DRAWN
And so at last, in recent days, I gathered something from the creative weight I placed upon my own shoulders so damn long ago.
I took a blank notebook and drew a line right smack dab down the damn middle of it.
Upon doing this, I began to list all that I had gained from this passion of mine on the right-hand side of that line, and all that I had lost on the left..
It turned out that I had lost so much more, genuine feelings long abandoned, deep soul connections trampled under my own foot, sacrificing myself for others attention, which led to things like self-betrayal and inadequate feelings towards myself.
Hell, I had to turn the page to write them all down. And even then, half of my ass ran out of empty space.
Though much to my surprise, the only word I found written within the wilderness of the left hand side was also written among the lost on the right hand side, and that word was “myself.“ And that in itself my friends isn’t as simple, or as difficult, as it all really sounds.
THE WILDERNESS WITHIN
When it all comes down to it, there is a dark and deep wilderness that separates what dreams we attempt to make people believe, and that of which, the reality of what they are actually able to perceive without judgment.
It is so desolate and rugged that it can never truly be known how far we are willing to go into that creative wild of ourselves, until we get there.
So all I can do for now is to keep trying my hand at checking off all of the bullet points that belong to my bucket list.
The most important point being, to find my true voice in this short little blip on the radar of this life, and how to use that voice the best way I can, loud and clear.
And I’m well aware that what I’ve done here in the past six or so years is nowhere near well-written literature, nor is it necessarily something to be consistently considered as art.
It is just a creative and poetic notebook with a line drawn by myself straight down the middle of it.
THE TAKEOUT
I‘ve come to realize as of late, that the point of the great creative expedition through the wilderness of our lives is to lend a guiding light, and/or to offer a helping hand to the betterment of humanity’s collective consciousness.
And to add another point—call it a cross—if you like, but we are here to create love, to ignite the soul, to liberate the spirit, and maybe light this little fucker up one last time, however it is we see fit.
So if you’re the sort of individual who sneaks into the refrigerators of silent kitchens in the wee hours of the morning, chewing on something an old friend once said, while looking for something to snack on? Or even just a little refrigerated light of inspiration in the middle of the night, then you can only eat up the words that I write if you do indeed have the stomach for them.
Because I aim to cook up a little midnight snack for all of you, just as soon as I make myself one first, and maybe, just maybe, finally I'll get this damned mental train of mine back on the right track…
Til the next time.
Ryan Love
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