There comes a time when "pushing" one's ideas that could save our world becomes morally the right thing to do. And so, if you have the time, I urge you to read my book, "Nexus. A Treatise in Defence of Love as Mankind's Answer," so that we can rescue each other and our planet from the trouble of our current era. There is a link to a free version and a Kindle version from my bio (bio-link below).
As a writer I spend so much time alone, me and the ideas in our creative bubble. Yet there are days I need other people around, even if it is simply in a cafe. To me, ideas are the same, they need other ideas around so that they can weave and evolve into the new and wonderful. So I take my ideas and I sow them as far and wide as possible as soon as they emerge. Each of them needs to fly, to enter the productive chaos of the creative ether and be reborn in the thoughts of others... be part of the ever expanding frontier of creativity.
The apple's skin sits smoothly next to my own, a promise of the sweetness within. In this noon-light it is as bright as it ever is, the earthy-hued stalk curling softly into the light. It occurs to me in a fleeting thought, that if the apple exists without consciousness, then a tree falling in the forest does make a sound, that the two ideas are quite unrelated as science would suggest - otherwise the apple would need to be thinking in some way and, wow, that would be so gross.
There was an explosion in her brain... the good sort... the type that carries more possibilities than she could be conscious of... but there were hundreds of ideas there in that buzz of electricity... she could feel it. It was the calling card of adventure, of paths awaiting her feet. Whatever was ahead could be a great challenge, and there could be tears, but it was her adventure to take and so she smiled. The ideas would come, probably when she least expected it, so she laced her boots and took a step.
When we dance with the wind and no care for where our feet land, when we twirl and feel the freedom within, that's how my mind is in creative mode. Any step is the right step, any wiggle and turn is perfect. It's not order that creates order, it's a happy kind of chaos that does. It's the difference between the urge to knock walls down or build them. First, there must be no walls, only pure freedom, the randomness that feels the same as sweet joy. From there the building begins, the flexible construction of a fantasy made real, one that works because it is built from freedom itself, because it is built by love with the heart of a child. It can morph, blossom anew, extend and fold, yet because it was born of chaos, order remains. The ideas will stay right and grow, develop, mature. The end result looks like order imposed, yet the two are opposites. One is a skin over dysfunction, the other is a skin over the most perfectly evolved organism. We are born to think freely and love deeply, because together they are the all the structure we need, the basic building blocks.
My creativity feels as if I'm a magician, it's just that I never put the rainbow flags up my sleeve. I never went to a shop to buy a trick, or even put on a fancy suit. It feels more as if I stepped onto a stage, in my pyjamas, with nothing but a silent mind and beating heart, and I must have faith enough to reach into my sleeve and pull out those flags. They are always there, every time, but every single time I fear that they are not. Perhaps that's why I love it all so much, I'm as surprised as anyone when the magic starts.
I think of my ideas as if they were a fine tangle of threads in a velvet bag, ribbon bringing the top in closer. It feels as if it were a lucky dip, all I need to is have the courage to reach inside and find something. When it comes I find out a bit more, learn what it leads to, follow the trail. I guess it needs to be that way, if I ever saw that ball of yarn I'd believe it impossible to make sense of. This way, content with a small thread at a time, everything works out just fine.
I loved the quiet days, the ones of still telephones and silent clocks. I loved the random sounds that came sailing in the breeze; the birdsong came so sweetly, almost tangible, as if it were softly spun sugar. I would sit there upon the clouds that were my dreams until, as the ones above are so prone to do, they condensed to form the random ideas that quench my mind. It was on those quiet days that ideas came as natural things do - from the sunshine, rain and earth.
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