The Factory

 

The factory of the mind is a dangerous place – Is illusion reality? – Illusion becomes reality in time.

My old essays and meditations had no merit and were boring, so bad they were almost good, so difficult to understand some believed they contained a message, I dare not reread them, it would be likened to watching an episode of ‘Prisoner Cell Block ‘Bastard” (letter changed to protect the innocent).

I realise all personal jottings are axiom’s which will lead to further self investigation – I wrote in a book about a room which contained a big winged chair, in front of which was a big dressing mirror – The book had another reference to it in a later chapter and I wonder if the reader will see the significance of these apparent random insertions within the story? We sometimes have to take a chance! I have little desire to expand further, hoping you will make the connection to me.

An article, chapter, paragraph or word has a descriptive purpose to enlighten the reader to the story, everything written is a story, once something has happened, the reflection of it or the telling of the experience is a story and it will become embellished. Its one of the the wonders of life, the retelling of ones mistakes, mistakes and failures are more interesting than success’s, I wonder why we are interested in success, you cannot be another’s success, it is unique to them – Mistakes are different, we all can get into debt, break a relationship. No, the rules to and of failure are easy, the rules of success evasive and seeds of envy.

Who wants to read about a successful mother of two who lives a mundane to Friday life? Most prefer’s to read about a homicidal maniac locked in a cage, planning his escape. The locked in prisoner has failed, he was caught, he succeed in his crime and we as readers desire to find out why. If in the reading of the story, its discovered the mundane to Friday house wife is his mother and her basement is full of murderous trophies and she is aware of these ‘bones of evidence’ she becomes interesting.

The reader is the scientist of literature dissecting and experimenting with your words, if their experiment is easy, they become excited, in fear, in love with what ever you are describing, The writer has to be within certainty of their subject and BOLD with the explanation. I dismiss the critic as they are RIGHT within their interpretation of the disgust, hatred, dislike, jealousy of the writing, a bold writer is like a brave soldier, the battles not lost because half the battalion has been mutilated.

Its a dangerous place (the factory), boldness and writing from the heart, writing for yourself without care of the opinion of others, it’s like life, you show me a individual and I will show you a creative spirit, an artist, a manipulator of words, paint and musical notes – Nothings new, all is distorted into new illusions – I believe this within my soul and within my life. Art allows the spirit to shine in life, there is no proof of anything other than pitch blackness in the final sleep. The artist leave’s their life and thoughts behind in the symbolism and codex of their creations, they never die.

Creative work has a birth and death – If someone intervenes, and attempts to stifle you work they are soul destroyers, the seeds of death, which can extinguish your creative fire. (especially if they write themselves)  A writer who becomes critic is a venomous snake – A artist who nurtures and guides is the moon in darkness.

Birth is boring (except for the mother) If I wrote about birth the reader would be asleep before lights out – I would never read about birth – It does not mean anything to me, indeed parenthood was one of my failing’s, thank goodness I have nothing to do with my children! I’m a poor and selfish man who only thinks about Liz – Writing and camera’s. What use can I be to anyone?

Death is boring – The journey to death can be interesting – dying of cancer, heart disease or old age is boring and this is how most enter the final sleep. Many spend half of their lives raising money to find a cure for a disease which they fear will kill them, why? The disease of death will never be cured it is certain, it is the only truth – How strange to spend 40% or more of life trying to cheat the reaper of his job? Live life, enjoy it and the world we live in, research money? May as well be monopoly money to me.

Its my opinion that birth opens the door to life and death closes it – For the lucky ones the wind of change slams it shut, for some, the closure is a slow one, the rusty hinges which represent, stubbornness, determination or the fighting spirit make for a lingering exit a “He fought to the end” type of death – And your art, your writing can be the same.

I read a blog about a woman who wrote about her illness, treatments, her fears, her disease – I believe she wanted to inspire others in their illness, she called it an unwelcome friend – personally I would call it ‘Unwelcome Bastard’ – in my mind the word friend has no connection to a disease of death, of cause it’s unwelcome, it, and the treatment of the disease is probably a painful experience, and you can keep them to yourself – I have no interest – The terror was the writing, it was excellent, heart felt and all I could think of, was a Vicarage in Haworth – I read some of her other works, brilliant – She’s a Bronte romantic, Emily’s style was the blood of the writing. Try as I may I could not get the steep hills of the village out of my mind.

When I watched my father die, I was ashamed for him, ashamed at his fear, his tear’s, but most of all his cowardice and in the cowardice was selfishness. I saw him in the death chamber surrounded by others who were holding the door open, I saw their dignity, their strengths, their smiles for the visitors, in my father I saw a fraud and in him I saw myself. My cowardice, weakness’s, and fears and through the ‘watching of his death’ I became strong, faced my fears, my lies, my unhappiness – only by watching a death can you understand it and make your choice to live or be zombie. I remember his weakness, wanting a cigarette, a bottle of beer and his wife refusing the pleasures, even in his death he could not fight for dignity, I saw that all of his 70 years must have been ones of capitulation. I took what I needed from the pain of another, and I can write about it, with out fear of you condemning me or taking away my right to write as I wish –  I am writer not slave to another’ opinions.

I like my work to be rough edged, I re-read and rework my stories, I attempt to be BOLD – so as the reader understands the bones, and they put the flesh on to it themselves, you’re right – I fail. The 40 meditations, and many of the booklets I produced over a ten year period have been deleted – They will never be re-written I have not the time. The books which remain since 2011 need ‘sanding smooth’ again I have not the time. The book Certain Realities was in the ‘factory’ for many weeks and its a far better book for it, the next book the ‘Bee Keeper’ turned into a 15000 word nightmare, its now a sensible 10000 word story – a short story – and it may be pruned some more.

When I finish a book, my journal for the day – I sign it with the words of Mr Peter Mayes my English teacher 2/10 you could be better than this….

You can write within your truth, from your experience’s, from your memories. There is only one truth –  your own – allow no one to turn your life, your art, into a lie.

Art is life.