Victoria, BC #5

I've come to Victoria
Ostensibly to write
But what I've realised is
Writing to publish
Striving to craft
Is a
Hateful
Objectionable
Destructive
Use of my time
I like
Pure flow expression
For personal growth
The rest of it?
Fuck it.

I thought the whole reason I came to Canada
Was to knuckle down and work
Write some books
Expunge long-cherished ideas
But really I came
To fall in love
To find a new way of life
Love is more important than writing
Happiness is more important than recognition
I would rather dig holes
And go home to somebody's warm arms
Than slave away on this computer
For such little reward.

How did it come to this?
Why do I try?
Wherefore the roots
Of this compulsion to write?
Well once upon a time
I wrote an online journal
It was therapy
Helped me heal
Allowed exploration of unseemly parts
That were accepted by others
I enjoyed the expression
And then I went on
To live an interesting life
Which others enjoyed reading about
Then came the leap:
You should write a book, they said
You should get published
You can change the world
Get rich
Find fame
We make this leap all the time
With musicians
With artists
With understandings
With feelings
But why do we seek to take something so pure
Something so natural
And concretise it
In a shape
That conforms to the world?
Habit, I guess
The way the mind slots into grooves
Follows well-trod paths
All those people saying
"You should write a book"
Thinking they're giving encouragement
Really they're placing a curse
Planting a seed
For a weed
That grows enormous
Dragging me in its spiny tendrils
To places I don't want to go.

This blog...
It's been a long time
Since it was therapy
And I suppose I continue it
Out of habit and compulsion
The joy of typing
And an unwillingness to
Let go
Not recognising
Things have long since changed
Does any good come of it?
Has it helped anyone in a real way?
I feel embarrassed when I think
Of the hours I've spent
In self-absorbed typing
And contrast it with people
Who do good in the world.

Likewise, my book
The urge to publish it
Placed like a bug in my brain
Fed by dreams of
Inspiration and change
Never having to worry about money again
Thinking
Because I'd found BLISS
- Incontrovertible evidence! -
Everyone one else would too
Such young, foolish delusions
Dreams I've dedicated years to
But - dig this:
It's out there and
It hasn't changed the world
Nobody cares
People read it and move on
Soon forget what's in there
And there are already a thousand books
Saying the same kind of things
And more advanced things than mine
I discovered one of them recently:
Michael Crichton's 'Travels'
He's a scientist and doctor
A successful and respected writer
He reports spiritual experiences
Impossible to deny
And yet
Denied they are
So where does that leave me?

I don't want to write
I don't want to waste my time
I don't want to be on this computer
Always wishing
For someone to discover me
I want to be in love
Learning about love
Living a simple life
Feeling happy and content
I know that works
And yet still I return
To these old ideas
About writing and words.

Two interesting things happened yesterday
The first was on a walk to a park
Where I climbed a nice tree
Sat in its branches
And pondered
I was emotional and fraught
At a loss with my urge
To abandon this writing
Plus having overdosed recently
On the great drug called LOVE
I hugged the tree
And thought of times trees had spoken
I said to the tree
"Oh, what shall I do?"
And the tree said
"This is your new life"
And I felt it.

The second was in a thrift store
Where I read a short story
About a monk on retreat
He forgot to bring his Bible
And the guestmaster said
"Why not write your own?"
He did, and it was useful
And then at the end of the year
The guestmaster suggested
Tossing it in the fire
Along with his journal
A whole year's wisdom and labour
Gone up in flames
When I read this
I suddenly burst into tears
Tears out of nowhere
Tears, I want to say,
I know not why
But I do.

Back in 2009
I lost a notebook containing
Many thousands of words
Of emotions and realisations
After briefly mourning
I saw quite clearly
That the greatest tragedy was not the loss of the words
Already expressed
But the loss of the blank pages
Never to be expressed on
It's true!
The pages were not for
Preserving
They were for
Unburdening
After losing that journal
I continued to write
But no longer thought about keeping
Everything was discarded
Sometimes immediately
And I missed it not.

Am I making my point?
And
More to the point
Am I picking up on it?
Acting on it myself?
It's hard
To break away
From such a
Long held
Compulsion
Especially with the weight of the world
Well-meaning friends
And my mind's own desires
Driving me along
To the edge of the cliff
But is it too late to
Change track
Step aside
And watch
The mad streaming juggernaut
Pass me by
And
Leave me free
Ready to walk
In a whole new direction?
What good came from
Facebook
This blog
My book
All those emails?
What
Return on Investment
For the thousands of hours?

The tree whispers
The mind wonders
The heart knows
But does the body act?
Ay: there's the rub
To force the body
To follow the feeling
To leave the known
To put a torch to the past
There's the faith
Faith in the face of the world
In the face of one's friends
In the face of one's dreams.