Stream of consciousnesses. This is when you just sit down at the computer/notebook and write whatever comes out. It will not make sense. It is just emptying all the stuff that is swirling inside.

I love-love this book called: Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg. She swears by this. She calls it 1st thoughts and this is what she says in her book:

The aim is to burn through to first thoughts, to the place where energy is unobstructed by social politeness or the internal censor, to the place where you are writing what your mind actually sees and feels, not what it thinks it should see or feel. It’s a great opportunity to capture the oddities of your mind. Explore the rugged edge of thought. Like grating a carrot, give the paper the colorful coleslaw of your consciousness.

What 1st thoughts do is they help to develop the connection between your subconscious-creative-inner-child-self and the paper. Your imaginative self is like a little baby made of blue electricity sitting inside you. “let me out! let me out!” it cries. You adventure through the jungle to feed the baby with attention. And then you go back to your conscious life. with every journey you take to feed your electric baby the path becomes clearer and clearer. Until eventually you have a ROAD. So if you want to write an amazing novel (I do), you might have had to battle thought the jungle to find your inner-imaginative-mind, but now you just follow the road and get there in record time.

Its like writing a dream. beautiful, naked, uncensored, pure creativity. And its interesting to see the themes that develop. for instance, i keep raving on and on about ‘alphabets’, and ‘alphabeting’. I have no idea what this means. It has no significance to me, maybe it has some deep psychological meaning that i am not aware of? ‘Siamese’ is another word i find myself repeating. A while ago I would always talk about ‘Wings’. I love seeing these themes come in and out of my 1st thoughts.

Here is something:

I wish I was a bumble bee and I could alphabet my freezing cold petunias. Made of hop scotch and lemonade cakes. The alphabets are made of snakes and meat pies. Thrown from the sky of love and devotion. Causing twelve commotions at once. In a dump truck. On a highway labeled “no-way back”. I wish I was a Siamese protractable incantation. Drawing sideways like a lantern shade in the morning. My mother sounds a warning. Telling me to trip the hose that smells like purple roses when i break my skin and blood comes sideways like a mountain range in the morning after my first breath. I wish I could enact the mona lisa every Sunday underneath the highway labeled “this-way to hell”.