Living out of cardboard boxes

Living out of cardboard boxes doesn’t do much my creativity. All my energy seems to be spent on sorting, packing, lifting, carting, storing, then trying to find a piece of paper buried within the tomb of a pyramid of cartons.

I should be used to it by now. I’ve moved enough times in my lifetime. But this particular period of transcience is different. I don’t have my boxes with me. They are in storage, a pyramid within another box (the storage shed).

So where does that leave me? In a new town, in a new (temporary) job, living out of suitcases and staying with family in the interim. But the interim what? The saying, ‘life is a journey’ has never been more literal for my circumstances.

I feel a bit like a snail: slow, carrying it’s home on it’s back, leaving a trail of ectoplasm behind, secretive, focussed.

I have an inkling, a little light inside me, that knows where this journey will lead – at least to the next station.

I am not afraid of change. Change excites me, motivates me. My adventures are both external and internal. I am not weary. I have learned to hold my energies close, and how to re-energise at each change of station as my journey continues.

My poetry anthology ‘Letterboxes: Indigenous Poetry’ has a poem in it about life in cardboard boxes. You can get an e-book of my poetry from www.oceanbooks.co.nz by the way. (Smiles). The theme of ‘Letterboxes’ is journeying. Each poem in that book relates to a house I have lived in, and about the experiences there. And about personal growth through those experiences. I guess it is something of a memoir – is ‘memoirable’ a word?

But, as I said before, never before has my life been cast in such a thin shadow. My life seems ephemeral, unreal. I know it is real. But the walls of houses, the solidity of buildings and the encasing of material possessions doesn’t seem real. I know when I move on from this particular station (or holding place), it will no longer exist on a material level. It will continue to exist, however, in my mind and in my heart.

On a lighter note, if I ever meet someone special who wants me to be part of his life, I can honestly say “I come with no baggage”. All my baggage has been sorted along the way.

If I look back – something I do from time to time – I can see my baggage strewn behind me, that ectoplasmic trail of be-longings. It looks chaotic, has some of the characteristics of a minefield, a treasury, a playground, all rolled into one big long highway.

The road ahead however, is an empty space. Even as I picture it now, I am mentally filling it with longing, dreams, aspirations, people, places – you see, already it is becoming busy. So I stop thinking about the future.

I know one day I will have to go back and sort out the remainder of my past – that pyramid of cartons in the holding vault. I don’t think I put Pandora’s Box in there with that lot. I think I left Pandora’s Box somewhere in a basement, in the shadows, of a house I lived in long ago. I have not intention of revisiting that place. Some places you don’t want to go back to. Some places you don’t need to go back to.

Yes, I will have to go back to the pyramid one day. When I do, I will be threshing through the remainder of my past life, sorting out the remainder of the chaff from the good stuff. And I will find that piece of paper I’ve been looking for.

 

 

 

I

Not ‘just’ another writer

You are not ‘just’ another writer. What you have to say about how you feel, what you think, how your day evolved, how someone laughed at your disability or dished you because you are belong to a social minority, is important.
I get angry and upset when people say ‘I’m JUST…a housewife, a mother, a solo dad, a caregiver, a cleaner, on a disability pension…’
How many times have you denigrated, or put yourself down, this week?
I am interested in what you have to say, I am interested in what you are writing about – your life experiences, past present and future.
And I am sure that there are many people out there who would like to read about your experiences too.
If you would like to publish a piece of your writing, prose or poetry, then go to my website http://www.talescreativewriting.com, contact me and send me a piece of prose or poetry, not more than 500 words, and a brief introduction to yourself (not more than 100 words – and a photo).
Get out there, let yourself be heard, help others to understand what your life is like, and connect with like minded people.
If I sound desperate, I think it may be because I empathise with you; I understand what it is like NOT to be heard or not understood.
I don’t have a disability, I am not a therapist or a counsellor. I am a writer, a poet and a procrastinator.
But I do believe that what you have to say is important, and I want to publish it.
I want to help people to express themselves, passionately.
I guess I should write something in my next blog about what it is like to be in a minority, but I just don’t think that way. There is that word ‘just’ again.
I am an individual. I am not just a ‘just’ and neither are you.

The Intrusion of Creativity

I’m still trying to figure out why I do it. I’ve done it yet again and this after I promised myself I would NEVER do it again. Sorry to shout, but I’m hard of hearing. I must be, I don’t listen to my rational self.

You know those spur of the moment actions that have consequences? Like creating a new business, developing new programmes, building a new empire, writing a new vision, or baking your own original recipe.

The urge to create comes deep inside, from an internal cave. ‘It’ uncoils, rises, and strikes at your heart, making it pump fast and hard. Sometimes it strikes, like an epiphany, as a light bulb illuminating your dark interior void. Sometimes it is insidious; a nagging voice, a persistent phantom door-knocker, a pop-up cartoon character who wants to be your best friend. Personally, it invariably surfaces when I am in immersed in water, driving a car, or waking me from a deep sleep at that magical time, 3.00 a.m.

And wham! You’re as excited as a baby with a lollipop. ‘It’ feeds you more creative juices. Then before you can be objective and rational about whatever-it-is you are creating, it’s there, in your face, smiling with the bold knowing of The Trickster, as if to say, “Ha, ha. Got you again.”

You are now face to face with a new business, programmes, empire, manuscript, or the most delicious loaf of bread, and you cry, ‘OMG, I’ve just created a monster.’ What are you going to do with it? How are you going to keep it under control? Or does it possess you? Do you want it to die or live? Prosper or perish?  Bake more or burn the lot? And then you realise that the manifestation was born of 10% inspiration and there is a soggy road of 90% perspiration ahead. Damnation!

So who or what is ‘it’? For a namesake, let’s call ‘it’ Joobah, for no other reason than to create a new name for this illusionary being: non-gender-specific, non-Earthy, of indeterminate age and molecular structure. (And if you can see Joobah standing behind me, whispering in my ear as I write this, then we are on the same page).

I figure there must be a veil between my real reality and my altered state reality. When I say ‘altered state’, I don’t mean drugs.  Joobah and drugs are not bosom buddies, not my Joobah.  It lives behind this invisible curtain; there is a secret subcontinent of time and place, where dreams are nurtured in where people and creatures are happily getting on with their own lives; that is until Joobah calls them up and into my imagination. It’s also a subcontinent where dark thoughts take on a distorted form of their own, sometimes hiding in shadows of even more secret places, calling themselves daemons.

I must be a fool to let Joobah have so much influence on my life, but honestly, my initial relationship with Joobah is unintentional.  Joobah can only get into my imagination, head, or daydreaming space when I lose my grip on concentration and what is going on around me. I have an internal policeman who keeps rational and logical thoughts focussed. When the policeman takes a holiday, or isn’t paying attention, or when I am playing The Fool, kidding around and being immature and childish, Joobah intersects my life with its own intelligence and purpose.

Joobah is deceptively intelligent and somewhat superior to my Ego. But don’t let my Ego in on that secret. Joobah doesn’t want fame or fortune, friends or family. Joobah just wants to BE. So when Joobah arrives with a new bag of tricks and treats, I really am the fool, taking a leap of faith, privately accepting the risks of failure and ridicule. It’s public humiliation that is my biggest fear, and just between us, I have this awful feeling that Joobah is also a paradox, because while I trust it, it has now thrust me onto the public stage with my new creative endeavour.

Oh boy.  I am taking a deep breath. This is scary. Why do I create? Why do I trust Joobah? I just can’t seem to help myself. Besides, I really miss Joobah when it is gone for too long, my old wise cranky funny immature friend who knows how to open windows and dig deep holes.