I was given a luxurious soft leather wrapped blank book; probably four hundred pages stitched together, with this soft hide leather wrapped around the pages, with a leather thong to wrap around the closed book to hold it closed. A beautiful thing out of a Shakespearian scene. As a writer, a most beloved gift to receive. That book has become my poetry book, caried around when moments of creativity present themselves.
I speak of this as my creative urges once again coursing through my creative mind once again, as it averages every twenty years the urges present themselves. The last time was in 1997-98 when my late wife and I lived in Mexico, in a little town called Mismaloya, about six miles south of Puerta Vallarta, on the Pacific coast. I wrote two collections of poetry during that period. Just being at a social location, or on the beach, blank book in hand, the lines just fell on the page. And that is the current dilemma for me. Whey don't I feel the creative inspirations here, as I did there?
Having pondered this for a very long time now, it has become clear to me that it really comes down to predictability. Humans value predictability over anything else. When I was in Mexico, I couldn't predict anything. It was all new, fresh, almost titillating to observe and pen the lines that formed my thoughts. I write stream of conscious, and it was so easy; there. Here, I get nada. Just observing people as if it's the most normal thing in the world. No titillation in that.
Leaving me with the task of shifting my perspective enough to see the beauty and wonder of people, anywhere. One of my favorite sayings is Dr. Dyer's Dictum; "When you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change".
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