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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476456" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>All The Good Reasons That Get In The Way Of Writing</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">All the good reasons that get in the way of writing, <br>baby needs new shoes, and you're conscientious and diligent, <br>will kill you faster than the bad ones <br>that brought you to the edge of your mindstream in the first place <br>to dip your skull like the cup of the moon <br>in the wellsprings of your own imagination<br>instead of always sipping spit from other men's mouths. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm not saying don't do what you must do <br>to be a decent human being, or as close as you can get, <br>but when you're creatively underwhelmed <br>by the rising Rockies of Circumstance <br>losing their footing like an avalanche of cornerstones<br>coming down on you like a barrage of asteroids, <br>you better find a mountain gear deep within yourself <br>to power you out of the way of your own collapsing mindscape. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Don't come to a reasonable truce with the ashen exigencies <br>of the underwhelming reality love married you to, <br>or pontificate like a hollow urn on the tragic absence <br>of even so much as an echo of yourself to make a comeback<br>or tell me you squandered it all like apple bloom<br>when everything I've read of what you haven't written <br>smells like smoke from a distant pyre on the wind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Remember the fire. Even if you have to burn underground <br>through the occult roots of the cedars, or bury yourself <br>powdered in red ochre under the hearthstones <br>of your prophetic forebears erasing your picture-music <br>from the cave walls like graffiti under a bridge <br>between this world as it never is when you look too closely, <br>and the one that's working on you like spiritual water on limestone. <br>Remember the fire. Remember the discipline <br>of disobedience that tempted you to steal it in the first place <br>like a Spartan boy with a hot fox, as it <br>eats you from the outside in without you saying a word <br>lest you get caught ratting your deepest secret out in agony.<br>Or regenerative Prometheus chained to a rock like a salamander <br>born in the fire of his own afterbirth. Know this.<br>Lightning doesn't strike the roosters of fire <br>that crow like weathervanes pinned <br>like a medal from an old campaign to the axis of the wind <br>as if the dawn were some kind of triumph over the night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cradle that fire in your hands like a bird that's fallen to earth, <br>or a lamp of holy oil in a niche of unanswered longings, <br>a candle in a hurricane of boarded up windows, <br>the light of your own mind, casting shadows of time <br>like a sundial with a wilder imagination <br>than its usefulness might at first glance suggest. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor will it do to catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, <br>or pour gold down your throat like the Parthians did Crassus <br>and expect to shine like a lighthouse in a diamond mine<br>with the voice of an oracular canary in a cage. <br>You've got to live inexhaustibly <br>what you're going to write about first<br>if you want to burn down the Library of Alexandria <br>in a gamma ray burst of creative annihilation <br>because you can only master as much life <br>as you've surrendered to like a heretic at the stake <br>or a pine cone germinating the seeds of enlightenment <br>like a zen hermit in a forest fire. Don't take <br>all the beautiful green swords flaming like wild irises <br>whose beauty you fall upon like an honourable death <br>and abuse them like the palings of a gate or a fence around paradise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Even if you've only got a firefly of talent <br>left in the caldera of an extinct volcano, <br>a spark in the firepit of a burnt out dragon, <br>a smouldering ember from last night's fire in the stove<br>on a cold morning when the windows are blazing with ice, <br>you must be crazy and wise enough oxymoronically<br>to be the benign tyrant of your own Golden Age<br>like Pericles of Athens, with a politically incorrect<br>lover for a muse you look upon like the Parthenon <br>as if she were a phase of the moon. Even if <br>you love the swaying silver of the wind <br>over the heavy-grained harvest breaking water <br>like a bell under a redundant blue moon, <br>don't shrink from threshing it if you want to <br>share it like bread with people as hungry as you are <br>to eat the heart of the king of the waxing year, <br>like Wodin made a sacrifice of himself to himself, <br>or life thrives on itself like a soccer team <br>that crashed landed on a mountaintop, <br>or the cosmic eggs of turtles feeds a manger of seagulls, <br>and the grass eats the grazer, and the grazer eats the grass.<br>Or if you're too sensitive to compassionately take life <br>in order to give it, sharpen the edge of your golden sickle <br>on the whetstone of the moon, and express your mercy <br>as Muhammad suggested, with a quick kill<br>you can hold love responsible for like a spiritual alibi<br>if you've got genius enough to heal it like a inspired liar. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You have to be part salmon. A battering ram <br>swimming upstream against the flow of circumstance <br>like the gate of a water castle you're besieging <br>to lay your blunted sword down in tribute<br>among the sacred pools of life that gave it to you <br>at the beginning of your song, like fire from their eyes<br>to wage a holy war of one on their behalf <br>you're doomed to lose like a conflict that progresses <br>from one defeat to the next against ever stronger adversaries, <br>angels in the way, shaitans obstructing the path for your own good, <br>who realize, too late, with every encounter, <br>you're growing stronger than the best reasons<br>could have anticipated strategically. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be a good apple tree, lyrically seasoned and epically strong<br>as Lao Tzu and the Druid aptly described you <br>like the sacred syllable in the heartwood of the letter Q, <br>and express yourself completely without intending <br>the betterment of anything, though all do, <br>from wasps and birds to bears and humans<br>with the beauty of your blossoms, the wisdom of your leaves, <br>and the generosity of the sacrifice that laid you out<br>like a windfall of dice enshrining the eyes that can see<br>like seeds in the sibylline books of the apple <br>the risk they'll need to take tomorrow like a fire swallower <br>of the sun and the moon to keep their planets shining <br>from the inside out in the Goldilocks zone<br>of a light that's been sweetened immanentally <br>by a dangerously habitable life holding up <br>a lantern in the dark that disappointment, defeat and struggle <br>could no more put out than a volunteer fire brigade of waterclocks<br>for the best of reasons could put out the stars in an arsonist's heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Set the world afire like a flame that writes on the wind, <br>poppies flaring uncontrollably across your field of vision.<br>Burn like a two-eyed passion for everything <br>you can see and be on the earth that consumes you <br>in the equinoctial fires of your vernal immolations, <br>not a magnifying glass that intensifies the sun into <br>the capricious focus of an idle boy on a cruel afternoon <br>shepherding ants like prophetic semi-colons into a furnace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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baby needs new shoes, and you're conscientious and diligent, 
will kill you faster than the bad ones 
that brought you to the edge of your mindstream in the first place 
to dip your skull like ..."></div>
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