Often I find that writing inspirations are born in my mind, at an ungodly hour, with such intensity they arrive kicking and screaming. Minuscule in size, but with the strength of Charles Atlas (or the strength of that other guy that holds up the world with slightly folded legs and hunched back under the strain).
And so, when inspiration comes with that kind of intensity, I am certain the newly birthed, crudely formed Phenomenon in my mind, when bathed and the umbilical cord cut, will be an utter thing of beauty and wonder that will live forever.
And despite the torrid slime of birthing fluids, even in its naked rawness, the Phenomenon looks good, sounds good, and is bright with an aura of thought provocation. I am certain, that it is a notion so inspirational that it will fit nicely into my own lifetime legends and equally as nicely into the external long-term consciousness of society as a whole. No doubt, when properly groomed, and securely kenneled, it will hold forever a shining place in my catalogue of writs (or should I say 'wits'?).
And when I blog this new inspiration, even come-by-chance-flat-minds will read my rant with blasé-ity, and in the midst of that read, the flatness of their conscience will be whipped into 30-foot-swells that will leave them forever mindful of the new notion—with a magnitude that renders a zealous wonder-dipped combo, of brutal soul-ache and singing joy.
Already I am imagining, some time in the future, the finely-dressed-in-text Phenomenon taking up a space on Book Store shelves reserved only for works, once so sophisticated, but now so much less formal than mine, of Billy Shakespeare, Jeffy Chaucer, Johnny Keats, and of course, my close friend, Chuck Dickens. Obviously there is no time to lose. The Inspirational Phenomenon must be penned, texted, and shared.
So 30 minutes later, after the birth of the Phenomenon, I run to my computer.
But already the prose composition, that the infant thought was going to form, is pretty much de-composition-ed. And though weak and fading fast, the Phenomenon still has strength enough to shun (though I apply with mighty force) attempts to manage and check its struggles with a sharp pen (usually so efficient) and close iron-meshed text—but alas, to no avail. The Phenomenon is too intent on plunging free and unfettered—for me to hold it, for me to pen it. And so it slips out of my grasp in its rawness and still unrecognizable form, to some other individual hungry for inspirational thoughts.
And, of course, we know what will come of that.
Again it will pervade a mind, and play the ‘Provocative Phenomenon’. Again, by another’s hand, a penning attempt will be made. Again, it will kick and throw verbs and adverbs, similes, even rhymes about, with a force phenomenal as itself. And yet again, with unequaled strength, it will blunt the pen, knock down carefully meshed walls of text, and rage away, until escape is managed, though it be weak, broken, and now of no particular matter or interest to anyone.