oh how insidious

I know very well the treachery that takes the form of a harmless-looking detour, like a natural branch, feels like it conforms perfectly to the personality and the direction, and the scenery does the trick with lush foliage colored like rainbows, and who can resist that bubbly trickle of a brook hiding shyly behind mossy stones, as the journey genially unfolds.

But then the terrain grows gradually thornier, rockier, steeper; bubbly brook’s tune turns thinner, thinner, comes close to disappearing under the breath of the journeyer, thinking another branch back to the original way must eventually open as the overgrowth grows thicker, thicker, both sides, but that branch back to the original – let’s call it the heart – the artery back to the heart, is so far away and the sun is suddenly blinking to the earth it is about to call it a day.

Stop and the truth is a pine’s thick-needle fist that stops the tracks cold. Fun! The fun! The fun got left behind. Many factors can act as legitimate culprits. But the most important thing to do is to get back to that sense of fun, of play, and if it means quitting what was thought to be the Main Thing – like going on the poetry road and forgetting that to create poems ought to first and foremost be fun, all about it should be fun, learning all there is, practicing, playing, should be fun. Fiction: should be fun. Making up stories, people, thinking about sex, thinking about craziness, thinking about ways to distort or subvert, or twist – should be fun.

Getting on the path of wondering if it’s any good or important or whatnot, only leads to loss of the fun. And if the fun goes away, the whole point is lost. I venture a sign to watch out for is the intensity of the feeling that you have to do it again soon as possible. Maybe a breath needs retrieval or pieces regathered, but the urge – that’s it, the Urge – if the urge goes away, or the repeating begins to feel laborious or like you’re doing what you believe is your part, because you went thus-and-thus distance and it feels too far to go back – I venture a big bowl that ought to be spilling over with fun is all but empty or dry.

And why on earth would anyone do this to themselves? If there is an alternative. If there is a way to maximize any available moment to fill it to the fullest with fun. Why oh why on earth do we forget to do it? Or feel uncomfortable doing it? Rules. Oh too many rules. Societal. Oh ptooey! The biggest rottenest raspberries to you!

Do as you like as often as you can. When the bowl empties, refill or find or make another. 

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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