a tiny crumb
on a chest of burden
a bag of pens
yet heavy the hands that steer the quill
stood a arbiter
the social isolation of an individual
stood the voice
of a thousand in one
ajar, the hat atop the head
tributaries part from rivers
of ink
of a crumb
of burden
(i need redemption from the writer's block. it's been omnipresent for far too long. if anyone can tell me what the poem means, thou shalt have gained my undivided respect for life)
-the lost captain
I have hence encountered the fearsome writers block but in the transition of literary mental secession, i have begun to doodle... : )
I was awaiting the the arrival of the highly unreliable public transport and my brain was irredeemably restless. I pulled out my pierre balmain pen (which traditionally writes like crap but looks good in my breast pocket, and was also a gift from a dear one) and started doddling on "the sun" paper.
Through theories of deduction and processes of elimination, i have deduced that the only time art is good is when it comes directly tied to an apparent emotion, e.g. boredom, fear, sadness, rage. I know it's a commonly know truth, but never did i expect this to be with such discernible truthness.
When we sit down with a pure intention to write, the abominations that result are horrible. But when you paint (either with a brush or with words) out of extemporary action, the beauty shows.
The beauty shows in honesty. In it's pure crystalized form.... With social conformity set in man's minds, these simple truths have expended into walls upon walls of superfical constituants. Simply put, when we truly madly deeply become our true selves without the need of any external factors, beauty always prevails. It is inherent in ALL of us, but for some, it's far too deep to retreive.
PURSUANT to that, i come to my point. I would like to boast a doodle i did this evening. It is nothing compared to what i used to be able to do, but i think with a little bit of honing, i may yet again retain my sketchers touch. This was just inspired by the strong wind that blew through the station.
(I know that this mile long explanation does not justify such a simple doodle, but it makes me feel good and i'll boast nonetheless)
p.s. now that i have deduced this, coupled with some pretty good advice from dreamer idiot (eugene), i shall be posting more poetry which i have jotted / doodled in my little black book, to subject it to all of your scrutiny and seasoned criticism. Truly appreciate it.
