Middle of the Night

The lines are breaking down and that means I'm going crazy or I'm humming with energy. Edges are like the sea to the shore. Rachel Carson said this boundary of sea and shore was where change was abundant and significant, where elements of land meet with the volatility of the sea.

But I'm up late not because of the sea, but because in the last few days - all the edges are interchangeable -  things falling away. Every page I read brings a significant idea or revelation, real moments stand apart like dreams - and like tonight, dreams so real that I woke up disappointed and broken... so I write. I'm hopelessly in love and have moments of overwhelming heartbreak, happiness, choking on an expression, laughing hard because I need it.

I slip between books like I'm searching for my words in between the covers of others - moving between philosophy, into nonfiction, to articles, to ideas. I can't settle my reading. Today, I stole Sula by Toni Morrison from the library and I feel like I've slipped across another edge, swept away to something more. Why did I wait so long to read this? There is a clarity to life when it is free from boundaries - because you have to feel and drawn in your intuition as to where you might be and why.   

Music speaks clearly - dreams make sense, and I am so tired that I fall asleep in my own dreams - only to wake up in another dream so simple and intimate that when I am drawn from it, I wish life would disappear so I can go back. Who cares where it is and what it's called.

Maybe this is the realm Coleridge described when he woke up from a troubled dream to write down  a stunning poem, only to have it dissolve in his mind as he was writing it down on his bed side.

Is this all just creativity held back - waiting to explode? Is this a break from reality? Or a refinement of my life? This life of being a chimera of creative thinking does feel crazy and thrilling, like I could sleep walk or speak fluent Russian off the cuff. But it also feels like power, like I've been waiting to feel like this and now it has arrived. I've been thinking about my last post and the idea of a young writer - writing because I had stories to tell - stories that weren't being told. A step further is that this is not some creative spurt or moment - this is a refined skill, a refined moment where creativity is fostered through blurred edges and connections. And here I am a skilled and seasoned writer ready to accept all the wildlife that I've been looking for.


I sit here in the early morning and listen to the distant fog horn. I'm not amazed by all this and I don't feel like this is a fleeting burst noticed because of a silly dream. This is a life that I've created - the life I deserve, and have worked desperately for. I'm owning it and I don't want to go back. I want my dreams to surprise me and even scare me all the time - I want the world to be as shifty and crazy as my stories. This isn't a call for recklessness - it is a moment of refinement, understanding that this is not only a good life, but imagine the great things not yet born by the words that are waiting at the end of my pencil. Imagine.

May 2014 / Ron Samul