The Tempo of Creativity

There is a speed to all the things that we have squeezed into our space-time continuum. In my case, the creative process is no exception. When my postings are read out loud, I discovered that I convey some excessive amount of urgency into the way I write. Maybe I am not alone in this as we hurl into an even faster society. So even without this intention, I am reaching into my brain to choose those words that send you on a speedy journey.

I like to read classics, however, as with with all classics, I say you have to stick with it for a 100 pages to really get into the rhythm of it. Nowadays, who does this unless it is required school reading? Have you ever tried to speed read "Wuthering Heights" or "Anna Karenina?" It is virtually impossible, and even if some understanding is derived from setting a speed record, the experience is severely curtailed. Language has certainly evolved, but as much as it is attributed to a melding of cultures and classes, it is also a product of our ever quickening lifestyle.

So what does this all mean? We may not all read classics, but I am certain that most of us email. I'm going to try and practice reading my emails aloud (work included) before sending them into cyberspace. I don't want anyone, especially clients, to junk my emails, but I can certainly be mindful of the tempo in which I frame my words.

Poetry is also helping me to return to my quieter roots. Because I am a product of this RIGHT NOW generation, I tend to have to read a poem a zillion times. The first time is my speed read. The second time is my speed read. The third time is also probably a speed read. It is around the fourth time that I allow myself to absorb each word. It is around the fifth or sixth time that some long buried synapses begin to stir and fire. I wonder if something that slows us down and inspires us with revelation could possibly produce more activity in the brain?

I recently practiced such an experience with the following poem

"The Anniversary of My Death" by W.S. Merwin

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
and bowing not knowing to what