Words can be a curious thing, created or chosen individually, but functioning only as a conduit of relationship. Their purpose is to transmit, to engage, or to stimulate. And without realizing it we (or perhaps just I) use our words with hidden agendas. I express myself, and in turn, express or gauge my relationship - with myself and my community. I appreciate writing because it gives you the time speaking often doesn't. With time we can mold, shape, and reshape our words, ourselves, and our relationships. For myself, it offers a serenity and beauty that is not so much about subject matter, but about creation.

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Words are very hard for me to come by. It is not searching for right words, but releasing thoughts and feelings in an orderly manner down the truest path. Wrapped in our words is our identity and our relationship with everyone who encounters them. As is the case with most people who would possibly be reading this, such words are much the bond that keep us linked in the present instead of past. Tis a heavy weight for such small words. And so these must be read gently, and slowly, knowing they often lie much deeper than they appear.

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I fear words like I fear many things. I fear they are no good, that they miss their mark, and that in turn myself and my efforts have resulted likewise. I fear how my words will be understood and how I will be judged. I fear what you will do with me and my words, because I cannot understand I and they can function in absence of a we. More often than not, I will simply choose to engage with words from the other side: ingesting, absorbing, consuming. I take them in and the process is reversed. I become the words as if they have created me. I will turn into what you tell me and live the story I read. The word will become flesh and exist only as it is read.

We must create to live in the image of the Creator.

Hi all,

Tis been awhile and it makes me think just about what all we do on here. I love reading about people, knowing about their lives, and interacting in my mind. This lovely little community gives me that sense of connection to those things and people I care about that generally lack any more tangible  daily connection. But I still live being unawares as to how to actually connect all of you with the life I find myself more fully engaged in now. Is it because I think the more mundane matters of my day aren't worth noting to those that aren't physically in the middle of them? Do I take less time in general for pondering? Or is there something holding back my creativity or general ability to be open about myself. I used to think that I wrote on here for myself (and maybe I used to), but I miss that creativity and I miss you all too...

On a somewhat less personal, but more important note:

Who would you help if it didn't take any effort on your part? Would you have any reason not too?

Goodsearch.com is a search engine created to take something most of us do every day and use it to help millions of people all across the country. With every search you make, a percentage of funds raised by site advertising will go to one of any 35,000 charities of your choice. You literally have to do nothing! The search engine is powered by Yahoo!, meaning you'll still be getting high quality searches, but you're making them count for the things you care about. The more people who use the site, the more money that will go to people in need, so spread the word! Just go to www.goodsearch.com and look up a favorite charity or pick one at random and start educating yourself. If you need an idea, I'd recommend the Tennyson Center for Children in Denver, CO (I hear they do some pretty swell stuff). Helping people has never been easier, just ask yourself why not. Thanks...

An exercise in free flowing thought.

I haven't done this in probably several years. Taken the keyboard in my lap, turned off the monitor, turned off most of the lights, turned off the monitor, and just started to write. Whatever happens to come to mind. The only overt stimuli is Henryk Gorecki's 3rd Symphony. It ebbs and flows in and out of consciousness, but serves more to cover up the faint hip-hop music coming from the end of the hall. Not quite as conducive for meditation. And so we try to sink down into the depths of the mind, or the soul, or whatever else may be down there. Finding creativity in the rawest sense, in a state before it has been refined into art. Maybe instead it is thought before being refined into creative thought. Does creativity require anything more than the mind?

We stop. Sometimes I think the mind does go blank. Or perhaps it is just too many underlying thoughts without enough clear direction to give something tangible. It is like white noise. Like the noise coming from the lights I can still hear in the kitchen. So loud but always silent. The Gorecki needs to be turned off. I remember being told that music that is meant to be background noise cannot be good music. Rather, it is an insult to most music saying that it is good background music. It is like the extra in a movie whose only job is to fill a gap. Perhaps important but fairly unfulfilling to say the least. Regardless, it makes me have a hard time putting on a masterpiece while I do something else requiring my attention. It's why I probably pay more attention to what I'm listening to in my car than I do the actual driving... most of the time... in a good way.

We stop again.

What gives our minds cause to stop, to think within itself? For myself I think it is probably rooted in the conflict it finds within myself. As I struggle to express my opinion or thoughts, I wrestle in my head over what those thoughts may be. I could never be someone who speaks without thinking. I'm not sure my thoughts, or feelings, or reactions come instinctively enough for such endeavours.  I wonder what has caused me to be such an internally planned person, and if it relates to the lack of planning outside of my skin.

Free association is a hard thing to let yourself do, to let myself do. To write, with no concern, reservation, no thought. And I wonder whether it is knowing that I am writing to a website rather than just the file on my own computer that makes me  press keys more hesitantly. We fear  what may come out of ourselves if we give ourselves free reign. I also like to write in whatever person it is that talks in terms of "we". Is it my sense of community? That I feel what we all feel and vise versa, or is it more of a reflection upon how I see myself? Is it thoughts that we can't understand ourselves from just one perspective. That we lose who we are when we consider what I am? I is definite. It is something set. It is quantitative, and i am not none of those things. Perhaps like God there is no description of i that can be all encompassing. That can be truth. I want to be me, the me of an inconceivable form, and so I want to be that mystery. I want to throw myself into that mystery, but I don't know where I want to be explored. I can tell that I'm writing consciously of you who might be reading this though, and it's filtering those thoughts that are coming through.

Switch directions. In confusion we get the most truthful responses.

I need to pee. You'll have to wait.

I force my brain to come up with a worthy topic before it is allowed to think . Whether I want it to be interesting, challenging, meaningful, I'm not sure. I want to turn on the monitor so that I can go back and proof read. Not for content but to fix all of my typos. I like to fix typos and can't let them go if I've seen them, [if I know I've typed them]. I can't just wait to spell check it all at the end, do it all at once. And so writing blindly is another practice. In letting go. Letting go of the power that we have because that power isn't really anything to hold on to anyways. I turned off the lamp, too many distractions. Now there's just four EXIT signs, glowing green above my head. Subtle enough to not be a distraction, for now. Not really. The more you quiet everything around you, the more you just realize there is blaring at your face.

We stop again.

This is starting to get long and I don't really want people to read it. Because they wont want to read it. I'm not sure I would want to read it, but would want to want to read it. If I were someone else.  I still can't close my eyes, too much stimuli, and I'm going all ADHD.

My hands usually hurt from typing. And I feel tired, but not in the way that I'd sleep. In the way, more likely, that I feel very aware of my body. I could see how different cultures could feel in tune, enlightened, or have visions when they go through different kinds of deprivation on their bodies. In fact I would probably agree with them, except for the distractions. I feel like I should be finishing, no, writing, a paper for biological psychology, at starbucks. That is what I associate with the color of the sky right now and the sound of computers, music, and cars going by outside.

And I feel completely unaware of anyone in the world. Except you, who are reading this. And I know just who you are. Every single one of you. In my mind. and it's the only thing driving what I'm writing

I get upset with myself when I try to think,because I think that I'm not thinking the right things. That my mind should be coming up with better things to say, more things to say, different things to say. That I need to just spew out something about myself, dark truths, revelations, and anything else that would seem worthwhile. But do I just get angry that I can't just be me (again, what is me? i?) I am an idea, and no one believes it more than I.

Now I'm going, I've gotten myself all riled up. This little experiment has given me little to say about myself. Hasn't tapped me into anything. But

Scratch that, start again. I'm upset that I haven't been able to really let go. That I've just been talking to you this whole time. That I can't separate the idea of me from the idea of you, and that if I'm not thinking, talking to you then what am I doing. I don't really want to read this again. An examination of myself is just too crowded. and I wish I could have something right to say before I turned on this stupid computer screen.