Kurt Bell

A life of courage, joy and independence.

Creativity

.

The book I never planned to write
Is proceeding nicely
Without much will or overt action

~

The desert elicits poetry from my mind while the mountains and sea produce prose. I can never write poems at home.

In my 20s I could write poems anywhere. Flat stuff. Filled with references to simple facts. Optimistic and young. Words of observation.

The stuff I’m capable of now isn’t wholly my own. There needs a catalyst. An outward influence more atmosphere than agent. The dessert is now that place.

~

It’s interesting how the book I never planned to write is proceeding so nicely on it’s own. I’m confident I could never have made such progress if I’d actually tried. The process is quite similar to the story which results from a pointless wander in the wild. Lots to report from a journey with no end in mind.

~

My muse is a nihilist, whispering cold words describing the eternity of empty beyond death. She’ll meet me only in lonesome places, like a conspirator or a thief. But really she’s a confidant, and perhaps my most honest friend; though she laughs at my fear, and mocks my every vain hope.

~

It’s curious how the muse was nearly silent during my adventure last week in the Deep Water Wilds. She normally only talks to me when I’m alone, and at risk, in very wild places. Instead, she followed me home this time, to whisper barely audible thoughts throughout the week; touching my shoulder during meetings, suggesting ideas during my commute, smiling at me through a distant crowd. I wonder how long she’ll stay? Why she now talks to me here? What brought her in from Indifference?

~

Crossing now from the place where I share life with humanity, into the vast void of Indifference. At once I find my own voice again. At last the muse returns.

~

It’s curious how the muse was nearly silent during my adventure last week in the Deep Water Wilds. She normally only talks to me when I’m alone, and at risk, in very wild places. Instead, she followed me home this time, to whisper barely audible thoughts throughout the week; touching my shoulder during meetings, suggesting ideas during my commute, smiling at me through a distant crowd. I wonder how long she’ll stay? Why she now talks to me here? What brought her in from Indifference?

~

It’s interesting how the book I never planned to write is proceeding so nicely on it’s own. I’m confident I could never have made such progress if I’d actually tried. The process is quite similar to the story which results from a pointless wander in the wild. Lots to report from a journey with no end in mind.

~

Cutting alcohol out of my life these last few years has definitely inhibited my thinking. By that I mean I think less. And I think less interesting thoughts (to me at least). Going into the wilderness alone is a little like getting drunk. Both activities take one beyond some edge, a crossing of boundaries of sorts.In the wild, danger creeps close with every solitary footstep in, while with drink the inhibitions fly, leaving us alone with the raw pulse of living. Both are a bit scary, reckless even, threatening regrets, hinting at worse. But wilderness and alcohol are catalysts too. A fast approach to a dangerous edge with a yawning, incredible vista both real and illusionary. These thoughts scare me for their reality and indifferent challenge. An attractive venue for gainful consideration as much a fearful venue for loss.

~

It seems my muse did not follow me back from the wild to inspire my words, but instead to catalyze my will. How much easier to do right while hints of the void and empty swirl behind my head, and memory of the black mountains of Indifference loom across the wasteland of dry Earth.

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