In The Beginning

I remember, when 'much of this', this habit of writing, started...about three years ago, maybe four. Oh, it was such a grind, with tiny jubilation's, of realization.

'I could write', and I could rhyme...and then memories, began to surface, at the mythic edge of other lives, or seeming lives. Not clearly. Through a glass, darkly...at first, and then, with increased confidence of reception, like a radio station, that finally catches the frequency, and the 'duh' light goes off, and the red light goes on...and you're singing tunes, with 'the golden oldies', and 'hearing brogues', of men that fell to ground centuries ago.

I could write stories, and poetry, off of this. I came to realize...I had always thought of writing, and did small stuff, and terribly. But, now, it was 'muse driven'. It was time, and I was 'useful' to someone. It became, God, in realization...and I give God, the credit.

I really try to maintain 'a modicum' of perspective, so that, I don't begin to sound, like 'the great and awesome' wizard in OZ. I'm afraid, I fail at that...somewhat. But, it's only to save 'your embarrassment', not mine. I know about ego. We have it. We all do. It overtakes and ruins many, and then, we are of no use...to any.

So, I tamp it down, yet, the phenomena, that is happening to me, while the world is labeling me...'pretend god', or worse, is...I am becoming 'comfortable with myself'. I am my own friend, and confidante, and critic, of course. Terrible critic.

While other's may believe, 'I have stormed heaven'...I believe, 'I was invited'. Now, I AM a writer, and I can fling turds out the door, at unwelcome guests...slam it, lock it...and move on from there, enjoying 'creative writing', all by my lonesome.

I have found 'my ji', and if you haven't seen it, or recognized me...tough on you. Music came, at the same time. I mean, dynamic string control and neck control of the instrument...I always 'dreamed' to master. My sweet guitar.

It has arrived. They turn away, outside. I turn within, and 'play away'...God's own sounds, from his own mind...sent down to me.

There's more...


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico