Stories in my Head

There is a place in my head where stories are stored. Stories to reveal themselves to me.
They are supposed to come down from that place in my head, travel down my veins into my arms, into my fingers, and use those to type out the magic onto this computer key board. Put the magic of the stories in the Word program, show them to me on the screen.
So I sit here, in front of my computer. So I sit here with my fingers over the keys. And yes, the fingers type. But where are the stories?

Is there a door in my brain that closes shut sometimes? Is there a rock in my brain that weighs too heavy to let anything through, or out? Is there a sensor in my brain that won’t let out certain stories? Is my brain overworked with blogging?

Blogging, the new sensation. Better than e-mailing. Stories from many people in our group and possibly from outside weave in and out. Conversations and cross conversations. Serious conversations, wild conversations, tickle the funny bone conversations. Memories, truths, fictions, everything goes. Not porno. No, we don’t do that. That’s not funny. Poems, prose, poetic prose, a swear word or two, all within reason.

Is blogging democratic Xena wondered. What is democratic? Democratic is when everyone has equal rights, equal say, equal input, equal value. That way I would say blogging passes. There is no dictatorship in blogging. No one tells you what to think, what to write, how to do it. There is no capital gain. No one gets rich money wise. We all get richer, wiser, learning from each other. Our imaginations thrive. We are communicating as free spirits. Blogging is mind expanding, blogging works.

Well, that was a blogger brain storm. But where are the stories ? Do I start like Snoopy? “It’s a dark and stormy night…” Snoopy never got any further. He suffered from writers block. On top of his dog house. Supper time ! Another excuse. Banging on Charlie Brown’s door, holding his dish. Maybe food for the stomach helps the creative process. Maybe. But not likely. More inspiration comes from hunger and poverty. Not too much hunger and poverty. Not so much that it degenerates you. Enough like in coming of age stories. Going into the woods without company or food and learn to survive, use hallucinations to learn from, find your spirit guide.

Your Spirit Guide can help you write. Can inspire poetry. Can inspire dreams. Can lead you to your best self.

Maybe I am not hungry enough. I’ve been eating more than I should. Sort of robs you of that hungry feeling that makes each meal a celebration. Sort of makes you feel a bit puffy, not very energetic. It’s a rather vicious circle. Don’t know what to write. Trying to think. Ah, have a sandwich. Don’t know what to write. I am thinking… ah have a hot chocolate. Some crackers and cheese to go with it. Don’t know what to write. What am I thinking? Is it lunch time yet? Don’t know what to write. Thinking that the dog needs a walk. First a cup of tea and some cookies. Don’t know what to write. What are others thinking? I should check my e-mail, and blog posts & commends, maybe…

Maybe I am tired. Maybe I should let myself get sleepy. Maybe between sleep and waking a story will be caught unawares. Or maybe in a hot bath stories will release themselves and come wafting at me on hot steam, break through the veil curtain, and make my fingers move to write down a hot adventure, a magic experience, a very funny story, a Valentine romance, the best cat story ever written, a doggone tale of man’s best friend, a story full of sweet flower fragrance…

But unless that happens, or until that happens, there is no story coming through these fingers, typing on this keyboard. No story. The dog is asleep. The cat is asleep. I am yawning. The computer tower is humming. Dishes in the sink are waiting. It is nearly midnight. Sandman come and get me. Send me inspiring dreams, exciting dreams, sweet dreams. Sand in my eyes, closing my eyes, good night. Will there be a story to write? With Scarlet of “Gone With the Wind,” I say, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

-