Monsters under the bed? Ghosts in the attic? Spiders in your skull? We’ve all been there. If it’s your first time, fear not. Or, well, fear a little, but don’t go nuts over it all. You have options.
Writers, eh? Whatcha gonna do with ’em? Bung ’em in a hole, and fill it with dirt. Stuff their mouths with dirty socks to be safe. ‘Cause writers, well, they ain’t always talkers, but sometimes they are, and you can’t take any chances.
There was sand in my room again this morning. And a warm spot in the air, hovering three feet off the floor just in front of my door. There was sand, too, in the keyhole,
I see the constellations wheeling overhead: the Badger, the Boar, the Thing With Tentacles On Its Face. The not so very enigmatic stars, put in place by an ancient alien race, long dead, which wanted us to know.
He appeared in the mirror over my shoulder as I brushed my teeth. An eyeless face, glistening fishbelly white; a flat, tiny nose and thin, bloodless lips; long, thin, greasy black hair. I felt that my reflected gaze was met, somehow. Certainly, my attention was fixed, immobile. I could no more move or complete my dental hygiene routine than I could fly.
He stares at me all through the long silence of the night, the tiny candle of his soul burning blue and shining softly out from his eye sockets and gaping mouth.
Search for the poetry of everyday language – seek it out wherever hides. And when you find its dread cadence creeping into common expression, shine the spotlight of your pure reason upon it. Chain it down, hold it back, with all the weight of plain speaking. Words are monsters, made stronger by the secret rhythms of our unconscious training. And that hidden poetry will rise up in your mind, until all that remains of your soul is a pulsing beacon of pure art, a swaying sine wave streaking into the universe, impregnating reality with dreams.
