Writing.

A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus: 1. What am I trying to say? 2. What words will express it? 3. What image or idiom will make it clearer? 4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?

George Orwell

Orwell did not write his two master pieces (Animal Farm, 1984) until close to the end of his short life; leaving the planet at 47 from a severe lung disease. But he often said that to be a writer that does not write at least 50,000 words a day should give the task away.

What was he saying?

To be a good writer or perhaps a great writer, like all the arts, practice and hard work are the sure fire paths to success. (The term "success" is another topic altogether.)

Orwell did not decide to be a writer until he was in his late 20's. But once the decision was made, he tackled the task like a man possessed. He wrote thousands of letters and articles, commentaries, novels, treatises and, for the most part, was politically minded. (Anti-fascist, Anti-communist) Many, many political pieces...

Apart from his novels and political articles, his favourite subject was the Art of Writing itself.

If one scans his books and articles will all too often come across a few words of advice about his method, his system, his philosophy on what makes good writing.

Paraphrased: have a clear topic and contention in mind; know exactly your audience; avoid unnecessary "big" words when a more familure one will do.

As another great writer said (Dostoyevski), write from your heart, believe, write with passion, and the reader will connect...if only for a moment.

Writing is like all the arts, practice improves, but like all creative endevours, discipline is the key.

The other night at a night club, or more a late night bar, I played the guitar for the customers, one song, and after the performance, had a few pats on the back. Then, later, a young university student asked my age, and appeared to be impressed with my so-called "experienced" life, and asked, "What is your PASSION?"

He expected me to say music, then I said, writing, to write a good piece is my passion, no matter a BLOG, letter, essay or novel. I've been DRAWN to write for the last twenty-five years; mostly crap, but it's my crap...and I simply continue to do it.

In the end, really, I desire my work to be read, but it is the act itself that gives me the most pleasure.

Orwell lived a short life though his body of work is still being sorted through by academics and historians, because writing was his passion, and he wrote every day...and the pages go on and on.

Writing is my passion.

I believe to have a passion in one's life is important; somehow passion gives us Meaning to our lives in this huge universe.

Ode to Love...and Love's Tragedy

Shakespeare's Sonnets come from the Bard's deepest thoughts, his passions, suffering and the expression of the ultimate Joy of Beauty, Poetry and Love.

Here are the words of a suffering soul, in love with "someone" much younger than himself, thus his references to age being no barrier to true Love in many of the verses.

All or most scholars agree, the Sonnets were written about and to a single person. The argument, of course, is who this person was...Oscar Wilde speculated the object of the Master's heart was a young male actor, due to the law, had to play all the female parts as acting in the 16th century was purly a man's job.

Shakespeare himself has become a mystery as to his true identity for many years. Interestingly, Sigmund Freud's "free time", was devoted to revealing the Bard's true identity

For me, when reading the Sonnets, Who wrote them or Who they were written For makes no difference. Because the Sonnets are the most beautiful Ode to Poetry, the Muse and Real Love and its Tragedy, that all too often, is true Love's end result.

Over the last three nights, reading or more acurately 're-reading' these wonderful verses, my admiration for the English language, its beauty and cadence, its ability for subtle irony and truth is astounding.

One of my favourites: LXXV.

"So are you to my thoughts, as food for life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground: And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found: Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the flinching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by-and-by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day; Or gluttoning on all, or all the away."

"Feasting on your sight", just to see (her) brings on so much joy.

"Thus do I pine"... but saving her image in his mind like a glutton, a wanting, a Love deep and experienced from afar...

Merely to remind yourself of the beauty of the English language read the Bard's Sonnets and Poems.

A gift.

Craig Middleton

Written originally for Amazon.com

All Rights Reserved.

Unrequited Love.

After too many drinks, usually a sign of reminiscing and sentimetality, he becomes "philosophical" and ponders:

What is unrequited love?

A love for another that is not returned, and some cases scorned, scoffed at and... most of the time, and this is the hardest, you are ignored as if you never existed...as if those memories in time never happend, except in his imagination; but he knows this not to be true.

You become a non-person, another body, a non-entity.

To truly Love someone, one would give up everything to touch them, give up one's riches, ones dreams, to simply be with them...

The rain slams, carried by a gust of wind, against the window like thunder...again.

He truly believed that to love someone with all one's soul, and the Love is from the heart, no matter what happens, no matter the time or place, True Love will always prevail, because REAL LOVE, is something rare and worth fighting for.

After some years, he thinks, was my love true?

Yes, he believes...more real than life itself.

How can this be?

Her love was never true or he believed she thought it was true but it was not Love because she let the world in...

He was never priority, this was not REAL LOVE, but perhaps a type of infatuation.

He now sits in his old chair watching the Weather Channel on his little TV, as the rain beats againt the kitchen window, reminding him of a beautiful time with her...that beautiful day in the forest, a picnic, wine, song and kisses...

His old cat jumps on his lap, reminding the old boy that it is time to go to bed. He carries his worn body to his bedroom, sits on its edge and puts his wet face in his hands.

He fights back the tears but they are unrelenting and continue to flow.

"Why, after so many years, do I feel such pain?!"

Real Love goes both ways, in this life time, what he would not face, accept or believe was the love of his life, could not return such Love and left him alone, and moved on, perhaps disappointed, perhaps not.

Unrequited Love.

He does not want to forget her but the rain continues beating on the kitchen window - in furious waves.

The pain fades as he falls asleep, alone, with only the image of his beloved in his mind, even after so many years.

The rain stops, the images fall into nothingness, as he falls into a deep, forgetful sleep.



TRUE lOVE:

SONNET CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

William Shakespeare

Kindness

The ideals which have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. The trite subjects of human efforts, possessions, outward success, luxury have always seemed to me contemptible.

Albert Einstein


Personally, the last month has been hard work, full of anxiety, an exercise in extreme change, moments when losing one's temper would have been appropriate, though, knowing that keeping one's harsh words to one self will do more good than harm, has proved to be the correct course of action - in more ways than one.

It is with out doubt that out of my 250,000 word BLOG, I've spoken of one of my favourite philosophers, William James. He had a word of advice that has always rang true, sounding simple but harder to put into action. He wrote:

"Just for today, I will do something I do not want to do, and do someone a kind turn and not be found out!"

Random acts of kindness has been bandied about for a very long time. But seriously, how often do we put into practice this seemingly effortless action?

Philosophy is about the pursuit of wisdom; as a subject of study, it encompasses many subjects: ethics, metaphysics, the nature of language - though it was the Greeks who asked the million dollar question that underpinnes all philosophy:

"How are we to Live?"

As a young philosophy student, some years ago, I really tried to put James' dictum into practice, but as youth is about creating identity and proving oneself, these acts of kindness had to be "huge", "world changing": saving a life, saving a damsel in distress, finding the "key" to world peace...what a fool.

Over the years, I've come to understand that so-called little acts of kindness can and sometimes does, has the greatest affect.

For example: taking one's neighbours garbage bins back from the street because you know how busy they have been. Visiting an old relative in a shelter that you know is dieing and lonely. Washing the staff room dishes when you are not rostered because you know they've had a hard week, etc. You get the idea. In all honesty, it took me a long time to realize this simple truth.

The first part of James' advice is a no brainer: "Do one thing you do not want to do." - we have chores, decisions, a "put off" phone call": cleaning toilets or even raking those leaves.

Just do it and you will feel better.

William James was considered by his contemporaries as a Pragmatist. In essence, this means, if a philosophical theory cannot be applied or is relavent to the real world, it is useless.

William James denied the label (Pragmatist), but certainly practiced it.

To feel the Kindness from another is a great feeling.

To be Kind for the sake of Kindness, is even better.

One last thing, what gives an act of Kindness more worth, is to do the act, anonymously.

Because there is no credit given if you shout your kind acts to the roof tops for the world to hear - only the ACT itself has worth.

This may sound easy, but it is much harder in the day to day life we have come to know so well; though James' words have great worth.


Something to strive for...

Feeling Home, but Feeling so Far Away...

He lies in the middle of his bed in the early morning, alone, somewhere around 3:00, except for his cat purring at his feet, the darkness all consuming.

The birds and wild animals sleep because it is so quiet; a peaceful silence...a calmness.

Then, out of nothing, an overwhelming feeling of happiness and love fills the room and his body is filled with grace...a tremendous Light.

It is nothing he has ever felt before or remembers.

I've arrived, he thinks. I have found my way Home, yet knowing deep inside, Home is so far away.

There is no rationality to his feelings.

He knows he floats, at times, aimlessly, in this vast ocean, an innocent, a child, like so many before him, merely passing through, and never knowing the reason, he feels EXILED and must find that distant shore...Home.

He knows this in his soul.

A voice enters his mind and says: "There will be signs, wonders and miracles along your journey and always keep your eyes on the morning star."

He feels: "I'll find a way ..."

The feeling of Home slowly falls away and the coldness fills his heart like ice from a terrible winter he once experienced as a child.

He knows Home is a far distant shore, but these fears and obstacles, he feels, like the torrents and waves of the Atlantic ocean, can be overcome.

"Why have I been exiled?" he wonders.

"What have I done?"

He closes his eyes as the sun rises, hearing the birds sing, as he falls into a deep sleep, those memories, those ancient memories, come back to him, strong, so clear, so beautiful, he yearns to sail towards the shore, hoping he will see those he has lost over so many lifetimes and will always love....and the Light.

He knows he cannot sail, cross over...too much time remaining...fixed in exile.


Feeling Home, but Feeling so Far Away.