Day 472: Writing, Escribiendo, and Convey

In this situation of being Here, nothing ‘ordinary’ exists – one only has to really look at any single thing to know this to be so.

Day 472: Writing, Escribiendo, and Convey

I forgive myself, as my Being, as my Innocence, that I have accepted and allowed to persist within me constant obstacles to my expression; that I have accepted and allowed myself to pay compulsive tribute to the resistances that arise within Me; that I have accepted and allowed myself to pay compulsive credence to the doubts in Me and of Me; that I have through all of this accepted and allowed myself to limit the Self Forgiveness that I am willing to give to Me, and that I have accepted and allowed myself to be defined according to those limits.


I place this SF statement here as a reminder of the previous post: it’s what I have been walking for these six or seven weeks or so, and now probably even more, and if not diligently walking, then all the same it has anyway had effects on who I am, the way I am. Some of these effects have been quite turbulent; from day to day new understandings have been coming up and I have kind of let them go, postponing writing, thinking mistakenly that tomorrow will be clearer, and yet tomorrow turns out to be a different day and different things have happened, seemingly not connected to the day before; and within that turbulence I am different also, or in a different place within myself, or more that there are parts of me that have become apparent that I had not recognised before.


Somewhat like a reading of some tarot cards as they turn up on the table; how one follows the other is not obvious at all to our everyday one-dimensionality, and whether it be cards laid down on table tops, or waking modes of thought, or the world itself as picked up by the physical eye in moments of reflection from the timeline of a thought, where a detail of the present scene is kind of pointed out by what the eye alights on – the tarot of the world itself – where from a floating narrative of thought, a reference point was chosen – at a certain juncture – perhaps there had been a glitch of a reaction, or else the glimpse of a solution, a momentary realisation of an implication opening up some a vista or a depth. Chosen spontaneously by the physical eyes, quick as a blink the attention had been rested on a tiny detail of the physical surroundings – as if it were a tarot card, a scale of vision – a movement not away from a certain consideration but instead a move towards a fuller understanding, a metaphorical dimension selected from the physical surroundings. That way the detail that had been lighted on by the physical eye could be seen as being supportive, even though the reading of the world remained so difficult to grasp.


This turbulence, or seeming dis-connectedness has not been any kind of problem in the flow of my process and experience of myself, but has been instead in feeling stuck in writing I see it’s like a problem arising from my definition of the word ‘writing’ – I see now how much I have been reacting to myself as I place myself as the living agent in this word Writing, going into judgements about continuity, connection, logical progression, keeping things upright, square, with an eye towards consistency… while my personal experience has been so far from that; and yet really now I look at it, what I see is that conveying my experience of the last few weeks has been a challenge to my definition of the word, and asking the question, Can it stand, and, Can I stand within as this definition, which, now I face the question, and see these weeks of hesitation and realise that I cannot, and that therefore I must now redefine the word anew and clear it.


Here is an approach to stuckness in ‘Writing’, to ask: What within my definition of this word am I allowing as obstructive? Does there exist within my definition of the word something that is outside of me or separate from me, such as a projection of myself that cannot be lived, an expectation of myself that cannot be fulfilled, because being a projection, it is not real… is there something in the definition that, when it comes to transfer into living action, causes a malfunction, in which ‘to write’ seems impossible, which maybe for these reasons, it actually is. I mean how can a definition function if it has built into something that is impossible?


Within my living of the word Writing, and for me closer to my heart, has been the word Convey; a word that I have lived in many ways, for many years: in physical construction, in paintings, in meetings and in conversations. I am sure of this because in seeing it I realised that here was something of my fundamental purpose here, a purpose that I chose; as if, let’s say in attending to some important detail of a creation, I found the word Convey inscribed, implicitly, as the word writ through it, as it were, and seeing then the presence of this word as the push behind and through my history and the actions of my life, all leading to this present moment writing here, it came up like a wave of urgency to the movements of my hand, feeling like the electricity of awareness of directly living Me.


Well back then in the 70’s it wasn’t something like: ‘I see this word, and I will stand by it…’ No, it was more like I was living it, becoming it. It’s only now I recognise what word this was. This leads in to my relationship with Writing and how I have defined and lived it; it’s like the word Convey formed the vital core of it, it formed the impetus of writing. The point being ‘to convey’ to convey the wonder of what I saw as life, while what I saw as being accepted and allowed and written off as ordinary moments existing in some deep or shallow grade of awfulness – so within Convey there was a drive to refute that drabness. It was who I was within and as Convey that I was deeply connected to myself with that extremely rare and scary moment for me of being face to face with my purpose in this world.


About five years ago, when I realised that my future life would involve some physical travel, it was obvious that the cost of this would be to lose my painting studio, and my decision was to therefore transfer that creative abstract work with paint into working with the words; and yet it was not clear to me exactly how to make that step. I saw no problem: there was no how about it, I just assumed that I could do it. Now looking at this point I realise that my confidence to just simply do this was coming from that oneness in myself that I had been living as Convey. The definition of Convey that I had lived since my early days was unconditional and unlimited; that I would use whatever came to hand to convey the inner livingness of me into the outer world as my whole purpose. And now I realise that the unlimited quality of Convey also carried with it unquestioned reactions to what I saw as being the drab consensus of the world, and to the rigid older generations, and within that now I see how I had defined Convey with elements of blame and therefore with superiority/inferiority and judgement. And within ‘judge not less ye be judged’ lays the spectre of being judged implicitly within my definition Convey, and so also as it resonates into Writing.


And so it was that somewhere deep in my assumptions as I folded up my life of painting, that I could just simply transfer Convey into the vehicle of Writing, I was not seeing at all how or in what way this word might become obstructive, would need some redefinition, that is me within as the expression/living of this word would require redefinition.


Living for the first time in this life in a Spanish speaking country I spend a lot of time with completely new and, to me, exotic words; I am in a process of making new connections both with Spanish words, and with English words. So at the same time as learning Spanish I am also in a way revising my familiar English. And in redefining words and in looking into how I’d lived out words, and what I had connected to them, I am suddenly looking at completely new dimensions, and new choices in how I might expand the words I know. For example I find in counter-point to Writing, the word Escribiendo, which for me raised a question that I have mentioned – of the formality that I had attached to Writing – and it brought suggestions to me of different new dimensions: more light hearted, scribbly and bendy, and also more free to wander and scurry about even. And I realised I would like to introduce all these things suggested by Escribiendo into my definition and living out of writing.


How and in what way would I like to change within and as the action of this word Writing is indicated here for me in Escribiendo: to first within myself locate that self abundance, and out of that to give to me that lightness that I find in Escribiendo, and not just lightness, but as well that freedom to wander and scurry about a bit.


continuing next post…


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