Creative Creator

Where does your creative space go?

Mine seems to disappear sometimes.

Not sure where.

Sometimes she’s

gone for a long time

And then

why hello there

 

Psychopathic Passive Aggressive Notes to Myself

Two socks, neither are mine.

Your fridge approached me the other day. It was an unwelcome advance.

You conduct an abnormal amount of static electricity. I am quite tired of your electrical current.

Where did you put the key to that memory?

Fuck you brain for phantom pain!

I see that you have failed to follow instructions.

Looking for another state of consciousness again huh? Spin around and think about the taste of purple!

The fridge says hello!

Please do not buy any more journals. You are just provoking her.

You are my legacy.

You are my false god.

 

 

 

“On Written Knowledge”

a-sadeghipour-onwrittenknowledge

(Continuation of “On the Writing Process”)

Writing knowledge. Knowledge of writing. Writing about Knowledge. Knowing how to write. Wait, I think the last one is different. Knowledge: (n.) “Information and skills acquired through experience or education; the theoretical or practical understanding of a subject” (Webster’s Dictionary). Hmm, perhaps the last one is not so different. I know that I have gone through the drills and learned the skills but it didn’t teach me how to write. So what did? Who did? Is it Experience with a capital “E”? Education often fell back into the skills and drills category. So where did it come from? Did I have some kind of epiphany? No, my brain doesn’t work like that. It’s a beaten beast that acquires knowledge from hard work and aggressive determination. If some kind of holy evangelic light did appear, it would wonder where the hell it came from and whether or not a glare was a trustworthy source of information.

“On the Writing Process”

(Continuation of “On Writing in Iran”)

One English teacher told me that writing was a process and everyone’s process was different. I laughed. A process? Ha! It’s more like a Pollack. Throw it on the ground and get mad. Maybe get a little drunk. Fling some ideas onto it and see what splatters, what oozes, what drips right off the canvas. Look at it closely and get a little paint on the tip of your nose. Then realize that your looking at abstraction and step back in exhaustion. Only to realize that amongst the chaos, you created a fractal.

A.Sadeghipour.Cursive.jpgI once got into a fight with my ex over cursive. He didn’t understand why they still taught cursive when all assignments could be typed up. He didn’t understand why people wouldn’t print legibly instead of writing in doodles. He just didn’t understand that without this physical representation of my swirly, compacted, blending letters, I would be voiceless. I have to see myself on paper. I have to be reminded of my home language. I have to feel my thoughts transition from some metaphysical brain plane to a visually jumbled blue inked representation. I have to see my thoughts in my writing.

And now, it is so strange to say, that I am approaching the end of my path. I look back on the moments that hurt me the most. Pain is a cruel teacher. But, I learned from those scars and calluses and I think to myself, “Maybe it was a dangerous mistake to put a pen in my hand. To leave me with the words I knew how to use but not why to use them. Because I remember them and my needle draws blood from black and blue.” You and I have made me the writer that I am.

(Continued in “On Written Knowledge”)

“On Writing”

Writing. Wrighting. Right-Wing. Rrrright-Ing. -Ing, -ing, -ing like an annoying ping, ping, ping. What the hell is it? It’s like trying to get a A.Sadeghipour.OnWriting.JPGdirect answer from a philosopher. Confusing and unattainable yet entirely adaptable and personal. Don’t judge my writing! Otherwise it means you don’t like me. But, I must learn to separate the two. After all, during the grading process the teacher does not have me sitting next to them explaining my rationale or intention. All they have is my paper. Is all of my writing reflective of me? Probably not. Funnily enough, I feel that the resume is the most bland and detached version of me. Here is a list of what I have done but not what I have learned. Sometimes, writing can be so sterile. This, then this, then this. However, not formulaic. For me, the familiarity of formula gives me comfort. Why? Because y is always equal to mx+b. That’s why. But this, I don’t like this here. Why? Because, because it doesn’t sound right. What? But doesn’t it fit contextually? Yes. But isn’t it sequentially and logically appropriate? Yes. But isn’t it grammatically correct? Yes, but it doesn’t sound right. I didn’t realize this was music theory 101. Read it and listen to yourself, see it just doesn’t sound right. It sounds fine. You should have heard the three voices in my head that were arguing this one out. Once 16 1/2 year old AP English student me got involved in the dialogue well, it turns into a red ink blood bath.

028.JPG

I am trying to write, but my cat is trying desperately to distract me. She is currently biting my pen as I write this sentence. I realize that the typed version of this may create confusion with my prior reference, but I can’t sit with my thoughts while staring at a blinding white screen. Why does it have to be white? Why can’t it be blue, or gray, or polka-dotted? Why blazing, blaring, devoid of all colors, white? And if you stare at it long enough, it begins to pulsate just enough to remind you that you are stressed and the the clock is ticking to your own heart beat which you would think makes you feel in control, but you can’t control time and you can’t control every heartbeat.

So, no. I don’t like writing on computers. And, yes. I have to admit to myself that I need my tactile reminder. Blue pen pressed between pointer finger and middle finger with my thumb pressed against the side of the instrument guiding my words as they touch down on paper. I need that physical reminder. Just like I need my other physical reminder. A hard callus formed on the middle finger of my writing hand serving as a permanent reminder of my previous imperfections.

(Continued in “On Writing in Iran”)