Wild

I will sit here and be alert to inner movements to put down on paper. I had a dream three nights ago about a dog chewing on my right hand, having parts of it be gone subsequently and then having a quasi healing, possibly from a doctor, where a dark patch of skin covered the wound. I believe this was about the process of learning a new right hand technique, which I am undergoing on guitar. The new style of playing which I have recently started to cultivate, has not yet kicked in and the old way still predominates when I play my current repertoire. The exercises I do to practice the new technique have not completely redone my technique on those songs. And, on the day before, I had a performance at the Cambridge RiverFest, which meant totally indulging in my old style. So, my old instinctive style represented by the dog is chewing on my hand and resulting in damage to my new technique, which may not result in a seamless effect. My inner conflict about how to play guitar is reflected on the dog's viciousness.

I have to say that I'm not totally happy with my dream interpretation. I did it, in what seems to me to be a haphazard way, without careful thought. But I'm letting the thoughts roll along without censoring and engaging in the flow. I hope this will be a long post. I want to get into it.

Yesterday I was contemplating what my ultimate dream in life is and what my core genius could be. As usual, when I contemplate, I move from thought area to thought area and I don't come to some ultimate point of clarity. I may get close to one, but then something comes along and diverts the ultimate attainment. A couple of years ago, while doing a Life Purpose workbook, I came up with a possible purpose - "to be an inventive composer who completely expresses the eternal truth using words and music." That struck me again in my contemplations as what could really be my purpose. I thought that for a while, but then my thoughts move to writing a book and leaving out music, just straight writing and writing a book a year. Of course, I have not ever started a book, although it has been on several goals lists I have made. Unfortunately, when I moved to the idea of book writing, I got up and ceased my contemplations. I didn't decide. Which is how my contemplations usually go - unfinished. What have I done with writing? Well, lately it's this blog. I realize that I have included a lot of "I" in this. Does the eternal truth include "I"? Well, I haven't necessarily been trying to write the eternal truth here...or have I? Sure this is cluttered up with a lot of questions that I try to answer on the spot. And a lot of personal stuff. The expressing the eternal truth goal was with the music. I do have a desire to write the eternal truth in a book, too. I once came upon the writing of Joel Goldsmith and then and there that awakened my desire to write the highest level of spiritual truth.

I have turned on iTunes to play my library on shuffle mode. This is a change from my usual blogging iTunes fare, which is usually instrumental stuff. The lyrics distract me, but this time I'm allowing the lyrics to come into play and intrude on my mental space, just for a change. As anyone can see from this post, I'm letting myself run with wild abandon, without care of where I go, so why not let the lyrics distract me. Hmm...as I listen to Elliott Smith I wonder if he let himself go to the point I am now. His music emanates care for what he is doing and a certain conscious control. He didn't let himself get to where he got to through wild abandon, without care. This is being unkind to my reader, it seems to me. But I'm not thinking about my reader while I write this, except for that last comment. I'm just letting myself go. Probably people have read writers who have let themselves go far more wildly than I am doing now. In fact the conscious control I mentioned doesn't apply to a writer like Jack Kerouac, at times. Or Henry Miller. Henry would go wild for pages at a time. He wouldn't worry about conscious control. He wanted to express the heights and depths to which humans could go. Henry said he never worked a day in his life - writing was play for him and that's what he focused on, his heart's desire, and he was one of the most celebrated writers of the twentieth century. Bravo.