Writing is mind-body integration (so, naturally, also a penis)

Before posting today, since April, I've redone this damned blog about 4 times. Different colors, pictures, the url has changed. I changed anything I could other than add new writing to it.

Often when I think of writing, I think of the time differential between having thoughts (milliseconds) and the physical act of writing (foreeeeeeveeeeeeeeer). It seems nearly impossible to take the many hours to transpose thought to paper without forgetting what you thought in the first place! What I also forget is yes, thoughts change during the journey of writing. And that's ok, Sara. You're gonna be ok. It's all gonna be ok.

All of the following are important and merge to create the writing process:
1. your ever-churning reckless production of thoughts
2. mindfulness
3. the physicality and pace of your hands.
(4. oh, and editing, but we won't count that... haha...ha...haa....)

Hey, I know. This picture is laaaame. But I can put whatever pictures I want here, it's my damn blog.

It is (2) and (3) I forget always when thinking-thinking-thinking away. I think, holy hot damn, my hands would hurt like I jerked off a good couple thousand horses if I wrote as fast as I am thinking these weird ideas right now. But...only having thoughts are not enough to write. You need it all - that is (ready?...)
the process by which mindfulness harnesses the spontaneity of thoughts through your physical body into the physical realm.

Three cheers to integration!

Speaking of which...
The other reason I don't write is due to this bipolar-ish superiority/inferiority complex type thing. It makes me feel like two completely different assholes that are not writers.

From the facebook photo album: ME!!11!!1 :)

 I'll disparage myself to the core when I think of my (lack of) abilities in relation to a particular art form...until I actually do said art form. As in sit down and create something. Then I'll show it to someone and get good enough feedback. That's when my ego goes, "what's cookin', good lookin'" on repeat for days. That is, until I realize I could never live up to its expectations. Then sadness. And productivity dies. More sadness.

It's like my mind is a penis.

...Just bear with me a second.

It's like my mind is a penis. After I haven't been productive for a while, it's a penis that is very insecure with itself.  When it isn't all pumped full of love blood, it's lonely and sad. It limps and looks down at the ground every where it goes and isn't very obvious to anyone. To the point  where other people totally forget it could ever, EVER, get inflated (with an ego, you see). My mind thinks, "oh, if I don't create anything with this dumb useless tool, no one will know how lifeless I am. Wonk, wonk."

But then, it gets INSPIRED!

Inspiration can be sexual sure, for the sake of jiving with this mind-penis metaphor. It can be inspired by the environment or by biological influences. For example, inspiration can come from:
-other people's writing,
-just some regular influx of serotonin or dopamine or otherwise a generally good mood,
-taking my vitamins in the morning,
-a cup o coffee extra in the afternoon (which is currently the checked box, squeee!),
-some vague mortality reminder.

Those are the big ones. Each of those reasons, that causes me to actually write, turns my ego into a big one. (See what I did there. I meant big one as in huge throbbing penis ... oh god, it's alrEADY HAPPENING.) I'd better stop now before I write up metaphors on how life is a rose and shit and really blow my load.

Oh, shit... I'm fucked.

In any case, I should go home now. I have to go ... do laundry. and make dinner. and go the gym. and and and and never have children.