When Your Own Writing Spooks You

Clean the basement. That’s how you find pieces of writing you never remember writing. I found one, and am going to throw it away. It isn’t bad as much as it is strange. In 2008 I took a stream-of-consciousness writing class and here’s what came out of it. It doesn’t sound like me, then or now. I think I’ve decided that stream-of-consciousness writing, or writing whatever comes into your head, is unsafe and possibly useless. Or brilliant. I don’t know.

We give away our thanks to the earth. We give away our all to the earth. The earth has given to us and we continue a mutual exchange, a give and take, a flow as constant as the wind that whips around the world, the streams that flow from high to low.

We stand in circles, we are circles, we are circles like the earth. We worship the earth and the earth worships us. We are its father and it is our mother. We hold each other, we embrace, we cling in the every circling dance of life…of generation…of reproduction, flow, breath, magic and source.

We are all one, and one is all us. Together we were the earth, we are the earth, and we will become the earth. We are united.

Togetherness. Wonder. Exhilaration. Breathe in and out and feel your gravity, your orbit, your rotation, your movement, your ever-changing face.

We bring you life—we take it.

We love live—love lives us.

We are we are we are earth.

Earth is us and all are saved. Saved from the burgeoning definitions, the warps, the mirrored perceptions that mean nothing, the desires that cloud us, the reverb that shakes us, the blocks that wear on us.

We want the magic of life and do not know we already have it. We want to grab the building blocks of life and they are already in our hands.

 

 

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About chuckmall

Fiction and food writer in Chicago. Author of "The Owl Motel: And Other Places Where You Are Not Welcome."
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