Fibromyalgia flare up, but writing poetry. When the fibromyalgia gets bad, I get stiff, confused, exhausted and I can barely do any work, but I am writing poetry these days.
I’ve been writing poetry for sixty years now. So if I get any idea, it becomes a poem pretty easily. But I just wrote an article on headaches for the apartment newsletter, and I honestly don’t know if it makes any sense. My co-editor will tell me later.
I realize I am saying I don’t need my brain to write poetry. I wonder if that’s true.
Poe was out of his mind most of the time. He also drank and used drugs. Meanwhile he created the mystery story, the horror story– which is quite an achievement. Also he wrote poetry. Alcoholism and writers is a common theme. The booze doesn’t appear to stop anyone from writing, look at Hemingway and Fitzgerald.
I am bipolar, type II, so I get psychotically depressed with periods of hypomania. Even being psychotically depressed, I’ve written good poetry. Not much brain power operating at all. So if the mind isn’t in charge of writing, what is?
Is it the Self, the part of the soul that the Bhagavad-Gita insists, is the part that is also the substance of God. Also if God is universal and saturates all life forms, then we are saturated with God. Then the deepest part of us is probably God-like or God Him/HerSelf. And God is highly creative, so therefore the deepest part of ourselves is creative. So if the brain is not working, the Self can take over.
This is probably true. I taught the works of Mark Twain at Michigan State my senior year. It was a highly popular course, with clever testing. I was so depressed, students had to come to my home and get me, take me to class. I lectured for 10 minutes and then turned the class over to student discussions. Then the students brought me back home. I was psychotically depressed but taught one of the most popular courses, with imaginative tests, and demanding homework.
I had nearly no brain power. Also I had a near-death experience as an eight year old. My brain was not working. It was laying down, inside my body while I whirled in a shining vortex, and then I encountered Jesus who told me after I surveyed heaven, that I had to go back. As a eight-year old I did not question God, so I zipped back into my body, surrounded by dried blood. An angel closed the wound. I still have the scar on my forehead.
So maybe the Self writes the poetry, not the brain.