Chronic Scribe on Wizzley

I've been writing for what seems like lifetimes. I find it funny that I only recently learned how to type without looking - so it goes, it seems for a chronic scribe. The essence of writing remains constant, the venue and style are the conditions that change. If I wasn't holding a pen to write as a child, it was to sketch, or doodle.

When a chronic scribe is a kid, no piece of paper is safe. My poor folks were assaulted with the inscription, "I was here" with sketches of anonymous profiles scrawled luxuriously and repeatedly over bills, bank documents (even money), grocery lists - it mattered not the original intention for the paperwork; mine was to use it up as best I could. When it came to paper the mission was: fill it with words and drawings that told the story of the moment, however repetitious and resurrective it may be.

As I grew, and the reality of life's roles over took the vague doodling and began to fill the paper without my even picking up a pen, the writing changed - it went undercover. And then for awhile, the chronic description seemed oppositionally on overdrive - described in university essays and applications to educational programs.

Once the fires that burn in one's belly to write it all out quiet to soot and coal, still, the chronic scribe remains constant in the background for awhile. The mind takes over for the pen. There remains an ongoing description in the back of the mind. The addiction waits, doodles and scribbles and sketches again, in the meantime. And then meaningful description springs forth, seemingly out of nowhere but surely arising from within, when conditions allow.

I spent a year in meditation. I read, and I wrote a bit, but only the bare bones minimum. I let go of the chronic scribe within, that voice that edits the story, the voice of the narrator, the moderator, the poet on stage. It was a year of learning truths that arose from an inner knowingness that transcended description in so many ways. For this chronic scribe, it was the end of Karma's Story, and thus, the book itself, is not written by "me". Undescribed by the voice that edits the story, the words are now written by Self; they are noticed and released simultaneously. Meaning has become what it means - by virtue of being what it is. For a chronic scribe who for awhile believed that words were personal, this is like being a kite released in the wind, the sting of the string on palms held tight gone, now, forever more. There is bliss in the nonlinear, and to capture that bliss in words on paper is, for this chronic scribe, a lucid dream. A lovely doodle; pictures of a beautiful life. Words alive with life, scaps of paper, cordless kites in the wind.