Sequence & the Guile of Imagination

Sometimes when working double-duty, imagination attempts to not only synthesize polarity in a story but also lay personal ghosts to rest. Somewhere inside the whirly-gig, the imaginative mind fastens onto raw memory from my own past & inserts this as plausible for a character. Even if this specific memory fits into part of an unfolding narrative, I reject it for being too personal yet marvel at the resourcefulness. The mind is attempting to both create & heal; to resolve & entertain.

If I become impatient, I tend to force the issue. In the heat of the battle, the field being the space I am attempting to fill with the next piece of exposition, I start to fling possibilities into the hopper. What if? Could this? Maybe? The more I crank the handle of this mysterious function of potentiality, the more content is generated. It can become a type of frenzy; I engorge the mind with possibility, believing like some empty glutton that more is always required.

It is the objective of this blog to educate the source of imagination.The questions sustains—which are methods best assist this process? Fresh input is essential. Is it more effective to read based on themes of current fascination, layering in new grist for the mill of word play? Or it better to research based upon what presently correlates to the arch of a character's development?

Perhaps it is wiser to begin somewhere near the beginning?

{Paintings by Carol Nelson}

Creativity, Industrialized

A hungry writer must shake empty coffers to make imagination dance. This delirious function is expected to perform on command, at-the-ready to seduce into its screens of illusion. It is not expected to require preparation for this feat; the simple fact that we require must suffice.

A writer's creative mind is not allowed to be dull or repetitious. Marvels must spin from a hidden centrifuge & we patiently record the details which spray across an inner screen. We demand imagination suspend both time & circumstance, all to lend the grist for our daily bread. It works with no service or maintenance; it is never allowed time-off from its tremendous workload.

When I am writing from the deep, working hard to weave some part of a fascinating narrative, the demands chucked at imagination are many. I will have this aspect & I wish to tie it with that function —hurriedly so that concentration sustains.  Sometimes this is a hallelujah pass & I expect something flashy. I want the creative mind not only to form a cohesive union between disparaging data but to do it with a lead to follow.

Time & again I pull the lever of that fantastic slot machine & time after time the mind serves-up coherence. It does not matter that I can be finicky & reject what has been sent, holding-out for something more clever or comprehensive to the complexity possible. Occasionally, it will shoot up a suggestion when I am least expecting it—imagination is tireless & has an enviable work ethic.

This part of the mind does the difficult work, the stuff which requires savvy & surprise. Without this loom of coherence, writing is nothing more than a laundry list of fascinating bits; a junk drawer stuffed to capacity with baubles.

{Artwork by Wassily Kandinsky / Promo: mortontolboll.blogspot.com}

Decrepitate

I feel interwoven; it's just the froth.

What is to stop the fields of imagination from becoming frivolous & irresponsible? How is it possible to grade information & experience, thereby weeding out bits of thinking which serve only to deceive or misinform? Can imagination function at its greatest potential when fed regular helpings of disinformation & fantasy? How might we purify this process so that the imaginative function begins with a seed of pure truth? A sense of reason expects nothing less.

Is the passage of time a metric in imagination's astonishing power? To afford space for a creative mind to weave the warp of private illusion, into the weft of expectation, time must be held in check. When I wait for creative process & sustain the clarity which stops any re-directing or starting over when I do not like what is being shown, I fall under the spell of brilliant cinema. The time afforded this gestation pulls attention inward, toward thought forms which breathe like fractals, expanding & spinning into something alive.

This is when the process works. 

This part is tricky: when I try to imagine myself in the future, looking back to where I am now, it is false remembering, tinged in either nostalgia or vanity. Depending on the circumstances which launched a projection. I peel inside the time capsule to anticipate the shock of the people who open it. This is the imagination of a deprived ego.

 I always cry at the scene of my own funeral.


{Photography by Antonio Mora}

The Tabloid Mind

Is it possible to memorise scenes from our imagination? Can we freeze a frame on that screen of our mind’s eye and hold it, immobilised like an artist’s model while we pass over it to record the details which make it distinct? Does an attempt at memorising the imaginary alter it in some fundamental way, spurring it to a transmogrification like some fast-changing chameleon who has no desire to be seen? Can we ever imagine the same thing twice?

Through this exploration, I am recognising areas of the creative mind.

The tabloid imagination sensationalises. It fills in missing components with hearsay and lurid assumption. It has an agenda and circumvents the logic of clear reason to thrill and enchant. What it cannot know, it invents.

In those times when I am led into the pasture of the most wishful parts of my arching imagination, I do not stop to reason why. I enjoy the certainty my imagination sends, with its vivid scenes and that false confidence engendered by fabricated truth. I encourage those flights of fancy, for in these times, it is like being caught in the excitement of an expertly edited film sequence. Even if I am not the star of the movie, I freeze-frame and watch all I could never know play out in my mind’s eye. It is electrifying and captivating; it is mental gossip.

It never fails that I will memorise my own creative fantasy and insert these fantastic scenes into the places where knowledge or experience should lie. My mind has become an impossible movie-set world where every corner, far and wide has been ornamented with this fast-spun candy floss. It takes almost no inspiration for my thoughts are loose and keen to invent. Who needs actuality when the thrill and ease  of  fabrication is so close by and so heartily encouraged. Can we ever begin to separate what we think we know from what is certain in this phantasmagoria? Are we blissfully doomed to live forever in this wild, deceitful conjecture? Wherever do we start to replace information that is merely the craft of an over-simulated imagination?

Can we ever hope for truth again?

{Photographs by Richard Avedon}

The Neighbourhoods of Imagination

Once memory begins the resurrection of childhood experience, priority is determined by consequence; I remember first what I was caught doing. Imagination is arrested in these particular memories, replaced by a recollection of fear & reprisal. It was in these times that the enthusiasm of play & the longing for adventure drove permitted boundaries into the forbidden so authority interceded. These crimes of childhood define the key events of my youth.

Like the stars of a particular constellation, periods of time when I was friends with one particular gang are organized by the punishments we received for excess & trespasses. Life was drawn with hard lines which were regularly tested; freedom was the virtue easily altered to respect the displeasure of authority. Imagination began to understand practical limitation — street lights & their illumination terminated all outside play.

Imagination began to find quieter forms of inspiration. I can recall being drawn into a water stain on the wall or the front cover of a horror novel. The drooping power lines which sagged, hung between poles that lined the highway—rising & falling like a skipping rope or stormy waves in the sea serve as a focal point for long, anxiety-riddled flights of imagination on family car trips.

Porcelain figurines frozen in mid-dance fascinate & the bric-a-brac tastefully spread around our living room begins to develop secretive, magical properties.

Closed doors house forbidden knowledge.

{Artwork by Mo Tunkay}

Fictional Justice

When I finally set to work in assembling stored instances, long-marinaded in the pools of imagination, I must ask my writer’s mind to do what it does best: connect. This is the flourish; the magician’s cape swirling in anticipation of some great & promised trick; it is why I chose to write.

In regular life, imagination can only assist in assumption, in wishful thinking. On paper, it builds kingdoms & then fills them with calculated intrigue.

When I lose the self-control which makes me capable of patience, the connections made by the powers of imagination become reckless & self-gratifying. I demand a coherence from the contents of an addled mind that is denied by an unjust world. Time & again, I demand imagination level a playing field so that chances denied by actual circumstance are viable.

Conversely, I yearn to punish the wicked & invent villains just to dispose of them triumphantly. When my imagination is permitted to exercise its wits in this type of mental grandstanding, I know that I am caught in a trap which is the end of originality. Cliché smothers that spark of the unique & I am afraid to see where the story will go without this suspending authority.

I write only to redeem.

These connections the imagination creates in composing a story are tentative. Sometimes, I must be cautious, as a scientist who works in a laboratory will volatile chemicals is required to be. Move this here, & just see what happens; shunt this against that & hope for a bridge. The work is slow, tedious & a world away from the exhilaration I love to experience.

When guided by the instinct of chance, when things shore up so beautifully, I feel as though I could never do anything else.

{Artwork by Nikki Rosato}

“I’d Like To Thank. . . ”

What a thrill — this blog has been nominated for a Liebster Award.

The kind nominator was author John Dolan who maintains an engaging literary blog himself: http://johndolanwriter.blogspot.ca/search/label/Home

As per @JohnDolanAuthor, here are the rules:

1. When you receive the nomination, you post 11 random facts about yourself and answer the 11 questions asked by the person who nominated you.

2. Pass the award onto 11 other blogs.

3. You write up 11 NEW questions directed towards YOUR nominees.

4. You paste the award picture into your blog.

So, here we go:

11 Random Facts about Me

1. When it is windy, I always try to take a walk.
2. Once upon a time, there grew a yearning to be a theatre director.
3. This body is shockingly inflexible.
4. One of my prized possessions is a beautiful deer antler, found in the glorious mountains of British Columbia.
5.  I have proudly read ‘The Secret Doctrine,’ slavishly written by Madame H.P Blavatsky, both Volumes I & II, cover to cover.
6. Nothing taught in high school was retained.
7. I bake a wicked lasagna.
8. In dreams, I am often precariously careening along on roller-skates.
9. These fingers have never keyed, then sent a text message.
10. It is somewhat disappointmenting that I have not yet travelled through India.
11. I almost always believe what I experience.

My 11 answers to John’s questions:

1. What is the worst present you have ever received?

Crackers.

2. If you were going to throw someone out of an aeroplane who would it be?

The Right Honourable Stephen Harper.

3. What is the most embarrassing thing you've ever worn?

Anything from my hot pink neon phase in high school.

4. If you could have been the writer of any song, which song would it be?

Raspberry Swirl by Tori Amos.

5. If you weren't doing what you are doing, what would you be doing?

Can you please repeat the question?

6. How long can you hold your breath for?

You ask this of a smoker?

7. If you had to have a tattoo what would it be and where would it be on your body?

 I have a morbid fear that tattooing does something rather nasty to the etheric body. I would not recommend.

8. Apple or Microsoft?

You mean we have a choice?

9. If you could remove one country from the planet which one would it be?

Atlantis.

10. Which extinct animal would you like to see not-extinct?

The Xerces Blue butterfly.

11. Which movie is most likely to make you blub?

The ending of Sense & Sensibility

Here are my 11 Nominees:

Cathriona Lafferty ~ @poetrycreator ~ http://poeticthoughtsbycathriona.blogspot.ca/

Aimee L. Salter ~ @AimeeLSalter ~
http://www.aimeelsalter.com/

Jason Alan Wilkinson ~ @JasonAWilkinson ~
http://jasonalanwilkinson.wordpress.com/

Vanessa Ryan ~ @vryan333 ~
http://vanessaryanwriter.blogspot.ca/

Rick Barnett ~ @Wraithsword ~
http://wraith01.blogspot.com/

Claire E. Smith ~ @SmithEClaire ~
http://lifemusecoffee.wordpress.com/

Lydia Aswolf ~ @LydiaAswolf ~
http://lydiaaswolf.com/blog/

Cynthia Woolf ~ @CynthiaWoolf ~
http://cynthiawoolf.com/blog/

Tina Graves ~ @iTinaGraves ~
http://itinagraves.blogspot.com/

Ulrike Miesen-Sherman ~ @UMS_Arts ~
http://carpe-mundum.blogspot.ca/

Gary Henry ~ @LiteraryGary ~
http://honestindiebookreviews.wordpress.com/


 And now 11 nominees, here are your questions:

1. Does what does not kill us always make us stronger?
2. Commune or monastery?
3. Which God would you light a candle for?
4. Do you consider yourself to be psychic?
5. If you could preserve one physical feature into old age, which would it be?
6. Are you more akin to your mother or father?
7. Which novel do you re-read over & over?
8. Who was the last person you kissed?
9. Are men and women really all that different?
10. Are you a happy drunk?

And finally. . .

11. Why?

Best of luck to everyone nominated and thank you so much for making the Twitter experience so diverse and rich. I hope this is a positive experience for you all.

Psst: Be sure to let me know when you’ve posted your responses and nominations.