The Writer's Block Virgin

Every writer has made the acquaintance or has at least heard of the oh-so-legendary 'Writer's block'. And just like many others, I suddenly found myself unwillingly hurled at a place that I didn't like and therefore a place I urgently needed to leave. Welcome to the journey of a Writer's block virgin.

1) JUST RELAX
The exit door leading straight to creative wonderland seemed at first logical if not to say easy: Relaxation. Therefore I took a deep breath with my eyes gently closed like in those generic yoga ads. I tried to relax for hours, days, weeks, even for months. Yet the durability of trying to relax combined with the nonexistence of any satisfying results whatsoever, made me add an extra effort to it, which on the other hand resulted in nothing but additional stress: the stress over not being able to relax. And there I was back to exactly where I had started: stiff, tense and wordless. Clearly I was running in circles - running far away from relaxation. But I had gained one thing: a special form of a slight passive aggression towards any remotely human being trying to be 'helpful' and asking me to 'just relax'. Even though it is certainly questionable whether or not this state of mind can be described as a 'gain' at all. But that's a different story.

2) BEAUTY IS EVERYWHERE
Plan B was to write about something beautiful. Beauty can be incredibly disgusting when you're forced to it. Nonetheless, I decided to intensely seek inspiration as at that point the nausea of looking at a blank piece of paper forced me to scale down my expectations from 600 words down to one single sentence. Talk about being desperate. I sat down over and over again, thinking of the past few months, my eyes still closed, seeing the incredible collection of breathtaking impressions and emotions I had been blessed with and that I had stored in my head. A wonderful place thus far far away from my fingertips. You would think that any writer would be able to fulfill the task of writing a single sentence. But nowadays more than ever a single sentence is under a constant serious life threat by being just one click away from trash and two clicks from forever gone.

3) ANY TOPIC IS A GOOD TOPIC
I ended up gazing shyly at good old Google, like a little girl who is well aware that she's not supposed to look at the soon to follow sex scene on TV but somehow can't help it. Google is naked knowledge combining the good, the evil and the idiotic and therefore it has an answer to almost every question I can possibly think of. I was looking for the famous advice of famous authors- famous as in folks who actually get paid for a sentence. I can tell you that any hint of possible embarrassment over myself googling 'Writer's block' vanished within 0,35 seconds. That's how long it took Google to give me more than 75 million results on this topic. Clearly I was not the only one and needless to say that I never made it past page 1 of my search results.  Now some of these famous authors suggest to write about something. Anything. Whatever.  Obviously I gave it a shot. Who wouldn't? Their financial life depends on writing so whatever advice they have to offer must work, right? Wrong. 

I found myself trying to write about the daily news, orphans in Syria, hope and death in Lampedusa, water on Mars, global warming and other serious topics. I quickly switched to fashion week, people, couples,weirdos or nerdos before getting to good food, bad food, a skirt, a plant, love, a piece of art - even dirt. I was  drifting from topic to abstract and steering from a state of being desperate towards madness. What was missing was my inner glue on which words would simply stick and the fun I used to feel when writing.

4)FUN
Ray Bradbury, what would I do without you? I found a video of the Sixth Annual Writer's Symposium by the Sea in 2001, where Ray talked about writing and simultaneously rocked my world. That's when he unknowingly became my writer friend. And here's an excerpt of smarty pants Ray:

“Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, aren’t you? Hm? You're in the middle of writing something, you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Huh? Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a damn for.” Huh? You’re being political or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! Huh? I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell! I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun. Huh? I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve NEVER worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a Writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.”

Cheers to you Ray.  May your wonderful soul rest in peace.





 

Mud

How I despise the words of those who accused me of being happy
Accused as if it was simply a mark given by birth
Accused as if it was simply a seed of luck growing on my earth
Accused, accused, accused as if it was not me who turned happy
But happiness turned to me

Mud, mud, mud it was
Mud all over me

How I despise the words of those who accused me of being happy - as if by chance
Judgements of those too blind to see - kings and queens of ignorance
Bathing in the velvet throne of comfort, in a dark room separated from hope
Surrounded by a wall built by the sad remains of the hand cut last rope
Efforts unborn, already dead
Buried deep in muddy earth, left alone, they fled
Their hands seemed clean from mud, but their skin was dyed in red

Mud, mud, mud it was
Mud all over me

It was at dawn when fear came over you
When shadows grew tall and sight was taken from you to seek truth
When roads behind you suddenly disappeared
And in a starless night the endless unknown neared

It was at night when mud grabbed your feet
When each step ahead was one step too deep
When happiness you thought you know well
Was made of words you could not spell

And while you buried hope right there and then
I walked the road not knowing of its end
I walked the road in darkness, blind and by myself
With no hand to hold and fear my only friend

I sank, I sank, I sank my friend
Buried in mud, I died, it was an end
But darkness passed like a seasons change
My skin a crispy desert, newborn and strange

Murder, you who killed your spirit
An empty shell of life is what remained!
You who dress in life and judge is you who should be ashamed.

It is the mud that is my happiness
My hands are dirty for everyone to see
I am life - not more not less
The mud all over me.

Love actually

While I am certainly not fond of routines once they start taking over spontaneity, I do enjoy the, what I call, 'children' of certain routines like Christmas because after all, I was not born or raised religious. Our family didn't sing any songs, nor did we pray or attend Christmas mass. And we certainly never reflected on Jesus. To make a long story short, to us, Christmas could have taken place on a random day like May 16th if at all.

Christmas was rather a yearly tradition that we adopted, celebrated solely as a peaceful gathering of family and close friends, because as it seems the majority of the people, especially families, need a date and a reason in order to overcome past peculiar quarrels and focus on the one thing that matters most: Love.

A religious holiday, even in a non religious family, is the best subconscious force of it all - my parents knew that and took blunt advantage of it: family and friends would dress up, hug each other intensely, kiss and laugh. Those who walked into our apartment would forgive and forget - all in the name of the holiday. Cicero was right: ' An unjust peace is better than a just war.'

On nights like that, we would enjoy a never ending homemade dinner whose smell would blend perfectly with the smell of the tree, the smell of sweet burning wood from the fireplace, the smell of the masses of fresh white snow that the winter breeze would try to squeeze in, and the smell of the people I love. Needless to say that until this day, this very smell is the exquisite perfume of a long lost joyous time.

Dinner was usually followed by the mandatory gift exchange where my poor parents seemed disadvantaged to me. My sister and I would get various gifts in different shapes and sizes, wrapped beautifully in colorful gift paper, with bows and ribbons from all the people who attended dinner, while my parents would nod and smile, be polite by the book and thankful for their health.

It was perfectly fine for me to gratify my dad every year with a new tie that I could afford with pocket-money that I received from him. At the end of his life he was the proud proprietor of an entire tie collection and I wondered if I should have asked him for a pocket-money raise back then in order to buy him a nice watch. I came to the sober conclusion that it would have made no sense at all . Looking back, I see how the entire 'pocket-money-gift' from kid to parent was nothing but an act of Love and the living proof that it is the thought that counts.

It was one of the best days of the year, considering the fact that it was not my birthday but actually the one of someone else I never knew. Plus if you think about it: when else is it nowadays socially acceptable to put an entire chopped down tree into your apartment?

Moving to New York City with no family and close friends by my side had many downsides apart from the one that I had no one that I could have forced to cheer up, celebrate and love for the sake of Christmas - let alone the gift exchange.

Years later I might be physically not surrounded by my family, but thanks to modern technology, we force gather online and have a blast. I am delighted to spend my Christmases with wonderful, loving friends. We might not cook the 5 course dinner, but then again, we live in New York where time and space are limited, where gluten-free meatballs and fondue accompanied by many nice glasses of wine and 'all i want for christmas' on Pandora, followed by ice cream and 'Love actually' are synonym for a 5 course family dinner in Europe.

And when I arrived at my friend's apartment in lovely Stuyvesant Town, straight from the hospital with no makeup on and in my PJs from the morning, the most festive attire about me were my new winter boots and a bottle of wine. When I was welcomed at the entrance door with warm hugs and kisses by Jillian and Lidia, it was Love actually. Clearly it really is the thought that counts.

swan

it seemed as if over night

she had turned into a swan

he, who was holding her tight

was holding her at dawn

every night

tight so she would not fall apart

her feathers covered in silence

every night

loose so she could breathe from her heart

in her sleep she felt his presence

with each dusk that followed the dawn

he who had already turned himself into a swan

was able to see what was yet to be seen

who she is, will be and has been

farewell he said and one more embrace

chest to chest and face to face

the stains of his absence were washed in her tears

the door shut and gone were her fears

her walk was sublime

was it her or was it time?

my love!look who i am! she wanted to cry

but her words failed to describe

and her voice turned shy

and with the heavy weight of his embrace

she learned to fly

Change

Little changes come fast and we are conscious about the change itself happening - like a car that crosses the street too fast and makes us step back and wait for it to pass - we can deal with its little consequences, adapt quickly and react. When big changes are impending, they sneak up on us, slowly. We can feel their presence coming closer but cannot see what they will be. Like going down a dark hallway with no light switch. All we know is that the hallway will reach an end, but we never know when. It is the incertitude that bears the fear. And it is this fear that we need to overcome, that we need to accept and embrace, like a stranger who leads us in the dark. Life will never be friend nor foe. Life will remain a stranger with no face, one whom we need to trust blindly every now and then.

We might enter a new room in our apartment of life - one that is clear and drenched in sunlight. We might even enter a new room in a new apartment that we have built - amazed by the fact that the construction is over. And sometimes we will find ourselves in the very same room only to realize that the biggest change in our life was the fact that we have changed - while walking down the dark hallway of incertitude.

The Four Seasons

In times, while walking along the big, wide cobblestone pavements of a city called Life, while looking around, making stops, turning right, sometimes left and sometimes in circles for a while - one would say that with the utmost probability we will, sooner or later, not only get rid of some belongings, but also loose some of them.

Getting rid of belongings is driven on by our choice, whereas the loss of belongings is driven by an unknown force. A natural, subtle force just as foxy fall, wrapping the leaves in beautiful colors and sending at the very same time a warm breeze to seperate them tenderly, effortlessly from the trees. Our eyes are attracted by the varietey of colors overshadowing the bald trees without even concealing them, making us see the beauty in the pain. The dull silence of winter will embrace us with his white down filled coat and at the same time lay between us and the rest, pushing us away with a warm hug, somewhere into the distance, far away from the others in order to get closer to ourselves. And just when we get tired of ourselves, just when our umbilical cord to the world seems to be overstretched, the snow starts melting, turns into tears and we´re ready to arise and bloom again in spring . We´re ready to keep on blooming in glory and pomp, infatuating the air with the pure perfume of our souls - here we are, ready to stand one tree next to the other, flaunting our crowns in summer, reaching the highest highs of our beeings until - it hurts again...