Enough Descending! Time to Ascend

Those readers who have been with me from the very beginning know that I titled this blog Descent Into A Creative Mind. That was all fine and dandy at first as tapping into my creativity did feeling like a spelunking expedition. There was a ton of bullshit to wade through, such as, “What’s this nonsense I’ve tapped out on the page?” or “Does anybody give a crap about what I have written here?” or “Is it descent or descend?” These types of questions went on and on. Underneath all this bullshit (heck let’s just call a spade a spade here. It was my shit. I’m not a bull. I’m a human after all…I think), I finally found myself (Eureka!) along with the subject of my new novel entitled The Admired. The only spoilers you’ll get about this novel is that it’s a satire on obsession and er…it’s slightly autobiographical, emphasis on the word slightly. The rest you’ll have to read when the book comes out (I’m 46,000 or so words into the writing of this novel. That’s about 1/3 of the way through).

I made a decision to give this blog a new look and a retitling. (Those of you who clicked the hyperlink—Welcome back! Where the hell did you think I was going to send you? I was in the middle of a sentence for crying out loud!). Joyously together we can call this blog The Ascent To Our Creative Minds. The intention of this facelift is to inspire, inform, enlighten, ignite passion under our tushies and pull together a community of brilliant souls. Yes, that means you! If any of this interests you, please read on.

When talking about ascension this isn’t some New Age hodgepodge. It’s real folks. I’ve discovered the roots of agelessness and unconditional love. How, you may ask: The expression of creativity. This is the inner child at play. You might say, “Well, I’m too old. I’ll never change” or “How’s this gonna help? I need to make money. Playing is for kids.” Bullshit alert! I mean human shit alert! Whatever-species-you-are-shit alert! I don’t care if you’re two or two thousand years old, all of us have an inner child. There’s tons of literature out there to prove this. Comment below with your doubts and I’ll be pleased to send you a handful of links. Should you still be sitting there bemoaning, “This jerk with this inner child nonsense”, let me ask you, don’t you want to laugh and feel the joys you once had as a child? Heck, I know I do. If you don’t, I’m not judging here but it would absolutely perplex me if you were to respond, “Eric, I actually hate laughing. Nothing beats a good ol’ serious boring day. While the sun rises, I yell at my loved ones. Cut people off on the road. Fire everyone at work. Sue my clients. Heck, they smelled like piss anyway. Then come home. Why eat a delicious dinner when you can munch on a nice microwaved paper towel. At 7:30 PM on the dot I lock myself in a frigid broom closet. Ain’t no mattress there! Why lay down when you can stand up? God gave us two feet for a reason. After some leaning against the icy wall, I do it all over again the next day.” Well, friend, I don’t even know what to say to that one.

Now, since we are all living here on planet Earth, money does need to be made in some capacity. However, why not go about it while having some fun? Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not talking about something kinky here, although that is not out of the scope of possibilities. There have been worse ways riches have been accrued. What I was getting at is a technique some of the greatest entrepreneurs use called brainstorming. The root of this is creativity.

I’ll go more in detail on all of these topics and more in future posts. In the meantime, regardless of your age, sexuality, economic status, connection with spirit, enjoyment of sleeping in a frigid broom closet, I really hope to learn more about you. Together let’s break through our limitations and soar through our most elevated selves. I suggest after reading this, you put some wild music on and get your dancing feet going. That’s what my plan is once I push the “Publish” button.

To the dear world

Let’s write one another from our own beds.  We can spill our hearts out on the pages.  Go till we run out of ink or when our fingers cramp up.  Then toss the letters out the window with the hopes it will arrive somewhere safe.  

The next morning, grounds people will pick up our sad letters.  Press it to their chests.  Feel bolder than a skyscraper.  The grounds people will then lead  humanity into a true heart-based culture.

All it takes is one pen and as many pages you’re willing to donate.  Go ahead folks.  Scribble from your heart.

Swanson’s

At Swanson’s, we not only install an X-Ray vision chip into your eye.  We guarantee it will work.  Take it to your favorite swim park.  Share with your shady father the contents of his locked “mysterious” cabinet.  You’ll impress people of all races, religions, ages and criminal backgrounds.  Swanson’s…wow your eyes before you die. 

Ode to the missing lamp

You were never here but somehow I miss you.  It would be easy to just flick you on or off as I lie here, my head pushed deep into the down pillow.  Without you I have to get up and shuffle to the light switch six or seven paces from the bed.

Strange how passion drains out the body.  I scream in agony for it to stop.  People tell me it’s normal to walk about like a zombie, feel nothing,  want only to pay bills or have a superficial chuckle with a stranger otherwise known as my brother or cousin or best friend.  Then as this passion has found itself deeply embedded outside of my consciousness, the simple act of walking six or seven paces to turn on or off a light becomes a burden.  Can’t death just take over.  Better yet, please end this nightmare ruled by apathy.  Allow me to awaken with lamps all about that are ignited by my mere excitement. This is what I long for.  

Naked Inn

While out in California, I had attempted to collaborate on a piece that I had entitled “Naked Inn”. Nothing ever came of it. Perhaps the awful title turned my collaborator off. Devoid of any further rambling, here is the piece in its raw form —

When Grandmother retired from the Inn, she demanded I keep it a Christian establishment. This baffled me as she considered herself a Buddhist. In her earlier years, should anyone make mention of Christ or any of His followers, she’d wince, insisting the conversation be changed. The repetition of her retiring wishes that the Inn remain a Christian establishment led me to believe that perhaps this wasn’t a slip of the tongue. Could she be stricken with madness? Events later in her life pointed to early onset of Alzheimer’s. She, however, in this moment, couldn’t be clearer.

One key to the Inn dangling in one hand, a finger on the other hand shaking inches from my nose, Grandmother howled, “Keeping it a Christian establishment means you keep it clean, Edgar! It means you follow the rules. When people check in, you get their payment right away. If they got no cash, show them the door! You hear me?” Before I could answer, she kissed my cheek, shoving the Inn’s keys in my jeans pocket.

As the Inn’s new keeper, business proved rather slow. The phone would ring, the callers surprised to hear a young man’s voice on the other end. Some feared Grandmother had died. I had assured them the woman was sunbathing, winking at cashiers, licking ice cream cones and enjoying every moment of retirement. Regardless, the Inn remained vacant for several weeks—just the creaking floors and me.

The first guests to arrive were two naked twenty-something year olds, one male, the other female. They were naked in clothing, money, vehicle, identification and knowledge of how they got like this. The boy suggested that had they arrived six seconds later, they could have died. How? They didn’t know. Despite their skin being opposite tones, they could have been twins.

“I don’t know what I can do for you two,” I warned. “You got’s no money.”

“You can keep us safe,” insisted the girl.

“Just put us in your worst room and forget about us,” suggested the boy.

“Worst room?” That made me laugh. “All the rooms here are great. Majestic, my grandmother would call it. Plus, how the hell can I forget about you two? You’re my first guests as the innkeeper.”

“Don’t you got a closet in the cellar,” asked the girl.

“You two are nuts. Listen, I promised my Buddhist grandmother I’d keep this a Christian establishment…”

“How does that work?”

“Not sure but I’ll tell you something…”

“What,” they both sung.

“I’ll give you a room.”

“One?”

“That’s right. One! If it were my grandmother, she’d tell you to get lost, you understand?”

“We understand,” they echoed.

“Good.”

They followed me up three flights to a room with two queen beds. They both crawled into a bed each, staring at me like a long lost uncle. I offered them clothing but they said not to worry, they’d figure it out in the morning. Their eyes closed, quickly followed by intense snores.

In the morning the room was immaculate. The sheets smelled fresh, not a single trace of nakedness anywhere (other than my naked confusion). I hollered a bunch of names but realized moments later they never gave me their names. Clearly it was time to sit at the front desk and scratch my head.

When I’m drunk…

The words come out faster.   You see, I’ve been rather miserable lately.  Running around town looking for my right place.   Jump into the Pacific Ocean?  Return to a land where walking alone seems nearly impossible?   Ay, questions just stick their ugly monstrous cocks down my throat mid-fucking-sentence.  So, I swat them away with Cutco knives glued to my fingers and then scream, “Screw it, I’m here.  This is where I’ll be…at least for now!”  Seems to work.

When I’m drunk, I also find myself torn between the words tossed on the page and the eager individuals sending me messages on Facebook.  Really, what I wish to say is, “Shut up and when can we make love?”  But I don’t.  I just play it nice and easy.  Flipping back and forth between the massive flow of these words and whatever commonplace thing that leaves my fingertips on that social website.

The urine that builds up during the drunken process infuriates me.  I’d piss right here, in your eyes, as you read this but it doesn’t work that way.  I’d have to buy a new computer.   Who’s got money for that shit these days?  So I’ll leave you here, wondering what my urinating experience was like.  Did I moan?  Was there a knock on the door from a bunch of drunks demanding an orgy?

So, I’m on my merry way now.  Unzipping the fly.  Standing over the toilet and whistling a tune…

The Prolonged Absence

Pop your champagne bottles!   Jump through the hills!  The long and arduous journey from New York to California has come to an end.  Here I am in heaven on Earth–Humboldt county, California.

It’s taken me some time to settle in.   The first few days were rough.  I’ve had to disconnect from the memories of my super comfy L-shaped house to a solar bus in the middle of the woods.   The bed I sleep on is an inch or two too small.   The occasional hornet gets stuck in my mini-afro; due to their peaceful ways, they understand, simple mistake.  Does a man punch another man for accidentally bumping into another?  Some do…not these hornets.

More to write later.  I’m at a party and judge myself a bit anti-social.