How I'm Wired
The moment I have a moment
The moment a moment opens
The moment there is space
I fill it with a creative idea or process.
I’m hopeless, helpless that way
Now that Creativity Herself, a.k.a SHE, is my muse.
Before it was a hand-me-down goddessish muse
(No offense, I love them, but they were all named
By someone else, and conjured times and cultures that are not mine)
Or a mythological creature or a spirit from another realm
That anyone might bump into along the Creative Way.
Powerful, to be sure, but not like this.
That was before SHE took hold,
SHE Herself, and let me tell you
SHE didn’t ask, SHE just came
Took me on, took me over
Takes me now, this very moment, as I write and speak to you
SHE takes me all the way to my limits
And then, probably grinning (how would I know?) pushes more.
Can you feel HER, inside these fingers typing, these vocal chords humming
Inside these words your eyes and ears behold
Can you feel HER connecting us, right here, right now?
It used to be I’d have ten creative ideas, vying to be my personal selection
Hard to choose. Not anymore.
SHE knows what SHE wants, single minded
Relentless, pointed, direct
The way bullet trains are built to fly.
There’s no wondering what’s being called for
No mistaking HER intent.
I have learned to appreciate that.
SHE ignores me, the small me, mostly
Unless, like today, I look directly at HER
Talk about HER, yes, by god, right out loud.
Now SHE is looking back at me
Even as SHE is writing as me
Talking to you.
I half-wonder why SHE lets me, but actually, I know.
You see, SHE wants you, too.
Wants your warm body, your fluid mind
Wants your life force and your best time of the day
And your dedication to wherever the path takes you
Wants that small you out of the way.
And maybe that’s too much for you.
Maybe the small you thinks, but I might die
Or do something I would never do
Or, well, who knows what could happen?
And I assure you that you are thinking along the right lines
Because you will
Yes, for sure, your tiny, little
One-in-7-billion-people-on-the-planet self will die.
Get over it.
I’d tell you why it’s worth it, this dying
But it’s not like that, not like there are words you can say
Not like I could convince anyone
Who wasn’t already ravenous to meet HER
Dying of anticipation for a visit from HER.
Like I was, like I always am.
I’d tell you more about it all, the whole rapturous ordeal
But I can’t.
SHE defies words (of course)
But I can say this:
Somewhere within, you already know HER
Already know what it’s like to forget
Everything and find everything.
Like the batter who desperately needed a home run
To save his career… and got one.
Like a mother desperate for her missing child…
Finally found alive.
Like someone who knows she is going to live forever
And is terrified of the boredom that will always come
Without… Something… More…
Best I can do, all I’ve got to offer
Are these words, this page, our moment here.