Tag: writing

To Be Free

March 4, 2020 / Tom

Sometimes I just want to vanish, to leave everything and forget the world exists. It’s those times I detest what I do, how I do it, and for whom it’s being done. I find myself swirling well outside incarnations of self-pity or remorse and, rather, find myself staring in anger at my lack of control and my lack of self-determination.

Fuck it all. I’ll see you on the other side.

“What,” I ask, “must I do to open my arms freely in my liberation? Is there something beyond this mind-numbing routine of shit that rolls down my brain onto the chair now caressing my ass?” My current hellish and mundane task of sitting in a box and waiting for the clock to turn is too much to bear. I must be free.

I wonder if the horses I pass on the way to my self-imposed incarceration feel the same way. Do they hate the cage they’ve been placed in? Or have they surrendered to their plight of being kept from running free on mountain trails by the barbed wires of enslavement just hoping to be fed again?

Who the fuck knows? What matters is I detest the wire, detest the grass you feed me and hate the fact I need you for the water that keeps me living.

To Be Free

It’s time to disconnect. I need to vanish. It’s time I hop the fence.

I’ve had this thought before. Many times, in fact. It comes in the realization that I’ve done little of what I’ve dreamed. I’ve certainly built wealth for others, but what does a man whose dream it is to write until his fingers grow old do with such a dream? What can a person who can’t stop diving deep within himself do when he just wants to run free? Is there recompense for a man who feels so much pain around him that he can’t escape the pain he feels within him?

Likely no. Escape for those chosen ones remain elusive, even if the door has been left open. We have responsibilities far beyond our selves. There are people who depend on us and who see us for the examples we are. I will not leave them even as I pray for relief. My back is to the wall and my solitude will have to wait until I finally have had enough.

Then I will disconnect. I will vanish. I will destroy this cage.

Numbness

Thoughts that I hold deep within will fall out of me like a raging torrent without much interference. I will finish my novels and publish my essays without much more to do with my days save the things that keep me alive. Truly alive. I will kiss the face of moving streams and touch the dirt that gazes unforgivingly at the houses down below. Then I will write more and try to forget I did anything but create that magic.

I don’t wish to be numb to my fate while surrendering myself to destiny. It’s the numbness that leads me to this place of rage. It is in moments of comfort that I forget what really brings me joy. I can lay silently in the sun, forgetting about the words bouncing within my soul,and let all manner of creation disperse wastefully to the ether. I need discomfort and the numbness. Despite the allusion to the lack of feeling numbness brings, it hurts me to no small measure and drives me mad with boredom.

I need more than just existence and this numbness suggests an existence mundane in all it’s boringness. The numbness that drove me to near death is a curse I wish to exile into hell, and action is the means by which I do the exiling. When my hands grow numb all I need is movement to bring them back to life. I need to move, to create and to bind myself to the winged creatures I envy.

For now, I will seethe in my discomfort and bide my time to liberation. I will crouch low in the tall grass like a lion stalking his prey and when the time is right I will spring forth to end this hunger. The growls will come and will serve as a reminder of what needs to be done. You cannot feed your soul on dreams, and you cannot end the numbness by remaining in the position that made you numb. Complacency feeds nothing. It’s time to move.

My Muse, An Introduction

October 18, 2014 / Tom

Now, it seems, is time to introduce you to my muse.

Rather than do this in what would seem to be easy fashion, I’d like to do it the way my heart tells me to, using the methods by which the Universe speaks through me. Please meet her as my heart speaks in the written word.

See, a picture would be too two-dimensional, a handshake too cordial, a video too incomplete. I’d rather introduce you to this gift in the way most of you were introduced to me. So, here goes.

Imagine for one moment you are thirsty and you are wondering through a scorching desert looking for something to drink. Everywhere you look there are pitted stones, dying trees, and the bones of dead memories strewn about in some chaotic fashion. Some of these you put in your mouth, only to be repulsed by bitterness. Others you don’t even get near, the stench is just too much for you to take. So you continue to search, to imagine what it would be like to find that one drink of water. You never give up hope.

Then, suddenly, you come upon a clear, cool spring in a lush oasis. You bend your knee to drink, that first heavenly gulp saving you as each swallow afterward reminds you not only of the thirst that nearly killed you, but of the wonderfulness of the Universe that brought you here. You take long, mindful drinks from that pond, and relax patiently on the plush grasses provided while enjoying the fruits of that place.

You are sure you will never leave. There is nothing out there for you, and everything you have ever wanted is right here. So, you give thanks, you care for that space, and you rest in a certainty that you are, and always have been, right where you belong.

That’s my muse. I’m glad you have had the opportunity to meet her.

Now walk with me. The Sun is blistering hot, and the sky offers no respite from its assault. You walk onward, the sweat dripping from your skin like tired stories of a slow demise. Each step gets harder than the last, but onward you march until…

..finally…

…. a large tree rises from above the unforgiving sands. You sit under her, enjoying the cool comfort as you are refreshed from your journey. She dries the sweat from your skin, cools the burning rage in your heart, and steels you for the effort that still lay ahead; all while assuring you that you can always return to her, without ever wondering where she’s been.

That’s my muse. Please shake her hand, and give her your utmost respect. She deserves nothing less.

Now sail with me on my Ocean. The seas are rough, the storm mighty as the ship tosses roughly around while the gods argue your very existence. You are battered against the wooden frame, bruised against the solid mast until, finally, you are tossed overboard into the murky mayhem that quickly surrounds you and drags you down…

…down…

…down.

The last thing you remember is your impending demise. The last thing you see is a vast, bottomless cauldron of darkness. You finally surrender to your doom.

You awaken on a soft, sandy shore, the Sun warming you, the light breeze sending chills up your entire being. You gasp as you remember your breath, and you inhale deeply as if you were newly born. You sigh as you embrace the earth around you, and you cry as a testament not only to where you are, but where you have come from.

There, right there, is my muse. I don’t possess her any more than I could possess the air around me, but I certainly utter lovely prayers of gratitude with each passing breath. “I love you,” I say. “Breathe,” she replies. I love you too.

Now that you have met her, love her as you do while I love her as I do. Know her through the air that you breathe, the water than quenches your thirst, the earth that gives you a safe place to stand after nearly drowning in the Sea. Be tender with her as she is tender with you, and give her your full attention. Do not question the Sunrise and Sunset, but give thanks for the experience of her absence by truly appreciating her presence.

She is my muse, and with each word you find value in thank her with all your heart.

Love.

God I love this place!

December 13, 2013 / Tom

I walk.

I marvel at how the once soft, fluffy sands have become hard and unforgiving in the winter’s chill. I’m alone with my thoughts save the sounds of the surf crashing behind me; the sea hidden behind a shroud of darkness that allows me to focus on that music and the Universe exposed around me. I sit in the chill, gazing up at Gemini hoping to see the faint streaks of light created by the end of things likely born long before man was a dream. I give thanks in each passing blur as I am reminded of my own mortality, my own beginning, and my own end. I am reminded of the distance between the two, and I am grateful for this step in the journey of remembrance.

Through the shivers and the wet feeling of coldness upon my skin, I realize I love this place. I love the drawings I see as my mind connects the dots on Heaven’s canvas. I love the bright gaze of Jupiter staring down at me as I stare up at her. I love the orange flicker of Betelgeuse lighting my way toward the Hunter I’ve loved so much since my youth. I remember gazing up at his belt, staring at its perfect alignment and marveling at how the dots seemed so close together, yet were so far apart. I remember realizing then that what we see from where we stand can make all of the difference in how we think.

God I love this place.

I walk.

I walk through the paths others have cut through forests created long before I was born. I embrace the stiff silence that allows the wind to make music through the brittle, dead leaves on their Mother trees. I notice how both seem to hold on to what was, neither truly wanting to admit that the time of their union has passed. It’s a certainty that the winter wind will separate those who cannot seem to let go on their own, and that the tree will sleep and the leaf will fall, lightly, to return the gift it has been given.

I cross a stream. Little tufts of earth peek through slowly moving surface of crystal clear water, reflecting Heaven’s gaze. I notice how everything reflected seems the opposite of what I see, and I wonder which is the truth. Am I seeing things as they are, or am I seeing things through a reflection in my mind that is the opposite of how they are? Whichever, I continue walking, realizing that time and space can change everything, including the distance between giant stars that likely pay no attention to each other.

I allow the cold winter winds of my life to separate me from my leaves. I let go and say goodbye as they drift away toward their destiny. I know those things I think, those things I see, are mere reflections that exist only in my mind. I am a man, after all, and can enjoy a view through both tainted eyes and the crystal clear waters of Love that exist in the calm stillness I dive into. Both exist for a reason, and a purpose to which both can be known.

God I love this place.

Here I sit. I’ve done nothing on my to-do list, yet I’ve given birth to an entire universe. To whatever blesses me with these words, I am grateful. To whatever inspires me to see beyond my flesh and bones, I am grateful. To the power that takes the ingredients of a man and makes them so very special, I am grateful. To my eyes that see and my heart that feels, I am grateful. Though I am no longer who I was, I am grateful for who I am. To the music I dance to and the voices I hear whispering lightly in my ear, I am grateful. To the scars and the wounds as well as the dream I had that gave them life, I am grateful. To the love and kindness offered that has held me steady, I am grateful. I am grateful for it all.

So I sit, in peace and in stillness as the Sun shines gently through the window, its glow changing colors through my closed eyelids. I inhale its warmth that contrasts nicely through the chilled morning air, realizing both in the same moment. I realize the stretch of time that has brought me here, the limitless experiences and infinite possibilities of what “now” has to offer. The raised bumps on my skin tell a truth, a truth that says, “Yes, you are on your way.”

God how I love this place.

And Now I Write…

May 28, 2013 / Tom

And now I write.

Having been blown away by the solemn wind of something other than this world, I write. Having fallen from a spot on which I’ve stood toward a hazy-blue tale of the unknown, I write. Having found the lost sense of purpose on which my heart does beat, I write.

It’s those eyes. Where have I seen them before? How do I know them? What commands my heart and soul to speak a truth my mind cannot yet fathom? What compass points to my true North which is not heading north at all? I do not think here, for reason has no place at this table. I am lost and found, completely at odds with my thoughts while knowing so certainly that what twists and turns outside my head is right.

To what paradise do I see when falling in those eyes? Only heaven could have pushed me from the cliff on which I’ve clung, and only Love could have gently forced me from the perch on which I’ve stood. I spread my mighty arms and soar through air that I once feared, now knowing the dream I’ve dreamt a million times as a new reality.

To you I fly,

my sweet lullaby,

To tear this mind apart.

And though I try

I can’t deny

That sweet and gentle heart.

And so I write. Onward and endless flow the eternal words from the deepest part of me. Harnessed intentions I see in the moving clouds and hear in the rustling of the leaves that are seldom dormant in my mind. It is a truth. It is the truth, and a purer diamond you will not find in the entirety of our Universe. Hold it. Keep it, and view the world through its perfect eye.

Goodbye, for now, as I will write again when the winds stir me to that hallowed estuary.

Peace.

Old Harriet (Creative Writing Exercise)

September 18, 2012 / Tom

Setting:
Sidewalk corner of a 4-way urban intersection. You are a pedestrian waiting to cross the street.

Subject:
A badly rusted yellow car with a large dent in its fender, rimmed with blue paint, waiting for the light.

Timing:
The 30 seconds until the light changes and the car drives away.

It had been a while since I had walked this route to work, and I was pleased to have the rare feeling of actually not being late for a change. My early start had given me time to take in the scenery of the City I’d rarely gotten a chance to see. I got to stroll through the Park, and had the opportunity to see street vendors set up their wares and some older couples casually walking and feeding the pigeons who seemed very comfortable in the routine. It was a beautiful morning, the type of morning where even the rush hour seemed quiet and peaceful. The extra time this walk was taking was nothing compared to the feeling of peace and serenity it afforded given what is normally a morning filled with chaos in meeting “the man’s” appointed hour.

The park’s exit was a few blocks from where I worked, and I promised myself upon exiting that I would make a habit of this trip. I needed to get my act together and end the chaos that kept mornings like this from happening. I became lost in the endless promises and vows that come along with making such a momentous change. I would have my clothes ready the night before. I would wake up earlier. No, I would not start emailing and Facebooking before I left for the office. No, I would not…

I was suddenly brought back to the moment by a tug on my shoulder. I looked at the man who grabbed me, a rather slight and frail older gentleman who looked at me with a certain amount of curiosity. As I was about to give him the “what the hell” line, he stuck out his nose and chin, pointing to the direction I was walking. It seems I was not only ready to walk into traffic, but was also ready to walk directly into a car stopped at the waiting traffic light.

I became transfixed on the car. It wasn’t anything special, certainly nothing that would ordinarily grab my attention. It was what appeared to be an old and rather used taxi, one that was bought and converted into a car for a family or a teenager who could afford little else. It was hard to tell if it was yellow with rust or rust with yellow, but one would not be corrected if either description was used. It was missing a few of its pieces for sure, but it was nothing that this car had or didn’t have that caught my eye. Rather, it was a large dent in its fender that suggested it had either hit something or been hit by something.

It wasn’t the rather unspectacular car or the completely unremarkable dent that held my attention. The concave crater formed by someone’s mistake was streaked with a cobalt-blue paint as if someone had applied it with their fingers. The paint was a unique kind of color, one that I didn’t see much of, but one that had brought fond memories into view. As I stared blindly at the cobalt blue paint, an onrush of memories took me to a place I had never forgotten. One that had me lost in a combination of yesterday, today and tomorrow.

It was the color of her car, and it brought me to the first time I saw her. I could still see her pulling up for our first meeting in that car. I struggled to fight off the glare of the street light I sat under to see her face in person for the very first time. I wanted so desperately to look into those eyes; the very eyes that had captured me weeks prior. I noticed the car only because it was in the way, and I cursed it somewhat for the intrusion. Yet, it was the horse that brought her to me, and as such I would always remember it.

She pulled up, and I was in love all over again. I fell in love with her many times. In fact, I fell in love with her too many times to count. First, I fell in love with her picture as her eyes caught my heart and would not let it go. Then I fell in love with her voice, melodious and strong it brought me to places I never knew existed. Then I fell in love with her words. They touched something unwounded and dormant within me, and offered me promise that all I had seen, done, felt and faced was worth it. She exited the car and walked to me, and as we embraced I fell in love with her completely as this moment became the opening to the song my heart would sing to her over and over again.

My thoughts went back to our moments in that car. We had shared laughs, tears, love, and anger there. Old Harriet (her pet name for the car) had certainly seen enough of me. Ours began a long distance affair, so Old Harriet had seen the miles fly by on the way to my town. She had also seen miles driving me around my Love’s town. She has seen us meet somewhere in between. We began, shared, and grew our love on the back of Old Harriet, and for that I owed that car something I could never repay.

Suddenly the old beaten car that had streaks of memory stained in it pulled away. Startled at the suddenness of its departure, I looked up at the traffic light. I had missed my chance to cross the street, instead joyfully living in memories that always seemed to complete my days and bring life to my nights. I had to call my Lover, now, and tell her how much I loved her. Delay would not do, I missed her and needed to tell her my heart’s story.

So I began my walk to the office anew with her in my ear and in my heart. She was telling me about her morning so far, how she missed me and couldn’t wait to see me. I didn’t tell her about the car I almost ran into, or the memories the stains of cobalt blue had jarred loose from within, but I did tell her about this moment, and about how much she meant to me. The time in between that first meeting and now had seen the distance between us shrink while the love between us grew. As I walked we talked, and laughed, and cried, and talked to each other as only we could. I sat outside my office on a bench and listened, loving every word, thought and plan that she was telling me about. Here, there, everywhere I fell in love with her all over again in a timeless cycle that demanded that I fall in love with her again and again with each passing second. Finally she had to go, and as she told me she loved me my smile forced a tear from my eye. Yes, baby, I love you too.

In case you are wondering, yes, I was late to work again. Some things will never change.

my Sweet Affinity

September 18, 2012 / Tom

How much is too much

Of me?

How much can you hear?

How much can you see?

How much can you bear

Of me, my Sweet Affinity?

Which time is the last time

You’ll be

Smiling at my words?

Wanting to hear from me?

Oh how much can you bear

Of me, my Sweet Affinity?

Which moment gives the rest

A loss of dignity?

When I don’t exist at all

In the Sunrise that you see?

Oh how much can you bear

Of me, my Sweet Affinity?

I pray, I struggle and look for signs

Or a simple, golden key

To unlock a moment’s saving grace

To set the question free

Just how much can you bear

Of me, my Sweet Affinity?

Tearing Down the Walls

August 20, 2012 / Tom

∏

Today, this moment, this second, this place in time. Whatever. I feel a disconnect in my soul, and separation from the force that creates within me. It’s not a block it seems, it is more like when two of north poles of a magnet are led toward each other. They are led, they may even connect, but the natural course of things forces them apart. It is not either magnet’s fault. There is no wrong here, the connection simply is not natural and, therefore, cannot last very long. At least that is how it feels right now. It’s like I reach out to my creative force and as I get close some force directs me in an opposite direction.

So that’s it is within me right now. I settled down at the appointed hour to practice the craft I love so much. I want to write, to share the art within me and to make something out of this passion. I closed my eyes as is customary, seeking a connection with the inner force that creates within me. I am not an artist, I channel the Artist within me. What you see is not my work, it is My work. What you interpret and define my creation as is your work.

Today, I can’t seem to find my Artist. Perhaps it is the stress of preparing for another move. Perhaps it is financial stress. Perhaps it is the uncertainty of where I am. Maybe it simply is that I am failing to recognize something far greater than what I think. Maybe I’ve found the diamond but only see it as a lump of coal? Maybe I have found what I have always been looking for and I simply need to open my damned eyes and see it.

So, I open my eyes. Same old, same old. The laptop glares at me. The mess and chaos around me stir up the pot and I feel like I should be packing and not working or writing. I look at the clock, only about 20 minutes left in my lunch before I get back to selling something for someone else. I’ve spent 10 minutes complaining about how little creativity I have today and zero time actually creating. What the fuck is up with me? I laugh at the question.

My phone rings in a text from a rather awesome friend. “What to you like to cook?” I take time to answer. I like simple stuff because that’s what I’m good at when cooking. Make it science and my experiment will explode. Make it simple and you’ll like what you are eating. I smile, knowing that this friend is an artist and most likely will understand this post. I know she will put my craziness in its place and explain to me what the fuck is up with me. She’s undoubtedly been there, and at the end of that conversation we’ll both find something to laugh at in the mix of our humanity.

Again I stare at the chaos around me. The silence smacks me in the face as if to remind me that the chaos stems from it. Ok, fine Universe, I remember the lesson. There is order in this mess, silence in the noise, light in the darkness. Somewhere…find it, search for it, and it will come. Or not. Whatever you decide it will be the experience you are after. You want stress, you got it. You want peace, you got that too. You want war, you will find it. You want to be tested by trust and faith well guess what, you’ll find a test coming in short order.

I sigh. I have to find something to create. This lack of creativity is killing me. I mean it is rare that I just can’t sit down and create something “magical” that brings bumps to my skin. My erotic Self is left basting in a cauldron of apathy and disappointment. My romantic self seems to have been packed in a box somewhere. Jesus, I hope I find it when I unpack. I can’t see a box labeled “romance” or “erotica” anywhere. Damn it, I mislabeled it or, worse, misplaced it! I laugh at the idea as I wonder if I will ever be able to get back in my swing of things.

Well duh, of course I will. Too much travel for work, too many nights in hotel rooms and too little time with those I adore spending time with. I’m not just talking about the kids, I need them around and they just left me. I’m talking about adult friends who understand what it is to be an Artist with a blank canvas staring them in the face. Friends who know what it is like to have to deal with the issues of stress. Those who understand the fickleness of other adults who lose their way from time to time. Ah yes, a warm embrace, a handshake, and pat on the ass and then…

My head shakes me back to real time. I feel my insides being tickled and I laugh uncontrollably. “You moron,” shouts my Artist within, “look at what you’ve created in your non-creative state. Keep being this blocked and you must may win the Nobel Prize one day.”

Hardee har hardy har har. The Nobel Prize? Nice carrot but you forgot the stick Mr. Artist.

“No I haven’t. I’m about to hit you in the ass with it.”

Ouch. I get it. Stop looking at the chaos that only exists in my mind and start enjoying it. Stop worrying about if people are happy around you and just start being who you are. That will make those who matter in the Universal concept very happy and like butterflies they will fill your world with color.. Those who aren’t, well they will fly away like the mosquito you swatted away earlier this morning. The butterflies light up the landscape and fill you with life. The mosquitoes only bite and make you itch for some time after they leave. The mosquito bites remind you of a time when your skin wasn’t itchy, red and swollen. Your bliss. Your butterfly tree.

Now the Artist is laughing hysterically, clearly mocking me in my time of trial. Honestly, I start to laugh too. If anyone saw me they would think I am crazy but that’s only because they can’t hear the joke and I’m not sure many would get it if they could. Still, it is funny to me.

“Who built these walls?” asks the Artist in a manner one could find from the old, blind master in the Show Kung Fu I loved as a kid.

“I did” came my feeble reply. I know what is coming, so I grab my hammer in anticipation. No answer. Nothing. Only silence, not even a laugh.

“Come on, what the fuck,” I shout internally as to not alarm the neighbors to my conversation. I can hear the paddy wagon pulling up shortly thereafter and the rubber room door closing behind me.

“Just playing with you. Seriously, I thought you were going to hit me with the hammer young grasshopper.”

“The thought had crossed my mind, but that wasn’t my objective honestly.”

“Then what was?” asked my supposed tormentor and current Master.

I thought for a minute. I could have either chosen to build more walls or…

“I wanted to tear down the walls keeping me from you.”

More silence. I look at the clock and realize I have to get back to work. More walls. Same walls, whatever. I look at the stuff I need to do around me. Yep, walls galore. There’s nothing like looking at a beautiful rose and realizing that it is what you see that keeps you from it. It is also what you fail to see which, for most of us, is that we have already created a wall from the beauty without even realizing it.

Ok, fine. I get it. What you are reading people is my hammer, and it will tear down the walls. Actually, it already is.

Peace.

∞

When am I no longer an “aspiring” writer?

August 3, 2011 / tomgrasso

Ok. You have to listen here. Not because I tell you to but because you want to. Wait, I take that back. Listen because I am telling you to, or because you love to see a grown man beg.

Yes, I am about to beg. In the tradition of Buddhist monks I am going to walk into the world with a proverbial bowl and two robes to begin this journey. Like Adam and Eve before the apple I am going to bare my Self. No fig leafs, no shame, just a verbal question to you all that follows up on the true action I have been asking the Universe.

“When will I no longer be an ‘aspiring’ writer?”

See, I have no formal training in the art of writing nor have I any real experience except in my hobby. What I do have is an innate talent and a great desire to write. I love pulling that part of me inside that hides out into the open and sharing it with the world. Writing is me at my most vulnerable, my most honest and my most real. It is the Self exposed in real time and the moment realized in the absence of time. It is paradise in my midst.

Now that the disclaimers are out of the way, let me say that I have absolutely no writers in my family. Nor are there friends who can share with me the experience or advice necessary for me to engage in my love of the written word. So, I have asked the Universe to become a writer. Again, I don’t ask the Universe in words for something which is, to some, ironic given my love of words. I ask in action. So, I began writing on my blog and then for elephant journal.

In this activity, the feedback I am getting has been tremendous. Emails, Tweets, posts, messages, texts and whispers in my ear all tell me “you should be a writer!” Um, ok. I appreciate the Universe answering me this way as it certainly has given me a push in some direction, but I have absolutely NO idea how to go about being a writer. Or at least feed my family while doing it.

So, now I ask the Universe by writing and, in the process, ask the fine readers of my blog and elephant journal “how do I become a professional writer?” To those volunteer firefighters (like me) out there who think the world “professional” doesn’t mean “paid”, I am speaking intently on getting paid to write (the volunteer firefighter thing will just have to wait for another post). What is the process? Who should I contact? What should I do to make a living doing what I love?

As you can see, I am not just asking for the process of writing. That much was given to me just after the sperm met the egg as well as the countless hours of practice I have had since. What I am asking is much more complicated, and any advice anyone can provide would be greatly appreciated and welcomed. For those who earn a living sharing their thoughts in written form, you know exactly what I am talking about. I hope you can share with me your experience and your suggestions.

Ok, now I can put my clothes back on. It was a bit chilly anyway. At least that’s the excuse I’ll give.

Thank you for your time and your help, as I know some of you will invariably be drawn to help this wondering soul. I can’t wait to get started, and look forward to a much clearer path ahead.

Be well, stay safe!