Don’t you forget about me

The wind told me last night….

It is 2.23 and the wind woke me up.

It is chasing the barn again. A stone building made for cows, tractors and hay. Almost a hundred years old. My bed is on the hayloft. Underneath the orange clay tiles. It is like a big oak-beam tent. The rain tickles the tiles. Or hammers them depending. Then I can feel tiny droplets on my skin entering the cracks. I can also feel the wind exiting the trapped air in my big semi sheltered space.

The farm lies on a hilltop. The meadows around are like frozen ocean waves. Lonely trees sail the surface crouched. The wind loves the place. It loves it to bits. It comes back time and time again, gets exited about this bit of land. It dances here. Feels free and plays. Mucks around. Curiously turning over kids toys, plastic chairs, buckets. Picking up stuff like the twenty foot trampoline. Then dropping it half a mile downhill.

Wind is an entity.

Or lots of them. Beings different from how they are represented. The way it swooshes around the building it reminds me of a flying dragon. Especially at night I can feel the invisible shape of the stretched and curling body. Of the power bundled in flight. It can be angry or simply bored. Sometimes it makes itself known and wakes me up howling and whistling. They are a show off. Mischievous. I imagine it offspring of the bigger winds higher up. Traveling slower. Big nomad families traveling the globe. Lands and oceans. Gathering sometimes, trekking, flowing through invisible gorges and valleys. Making cloud formations, sucking up water and freezing it. Challenging earth’s gravity. Wind doesn’t travel east to west in a single homogenous swoop. It is four dimensional. It has time to defy gravity and play with the light. Bending it, spreading the colours. Air is not stale. It isn’t a dead layer of gasses. Don’t you forget the wind hums. Don’t you forget about me. I enter you constantly. We feed you. You are windmakers yourselves. Blowing breeze after breeze from your lungs. Wind pushes the barn roof to remind me. Dragging its tail over the rattling tiles.

Yes we lived in the yurt for the summer and the winds made us decide to move back into the barn for winter. They yanked the ropes, tore the roof. Get off our playground they told us, we need it back for a while.

Write about me, this howling one said when I woke up, and I obeyed. It’s quiet now. Can I now go to sleep again? Am I done for this session?

Almost.

A good bad habit

I often wake up with something pushing me to write. It is a good bad habit. Roughly twenty years ago I discovered the dreamworld as a source. And at four in the morning I can write undisturbed. I have done that for ages. Writing from four to six, sometimes seven. Sleep an hour or two, then head off to work. It was the only time when I was able to get deep enough.

Writing feels like channeling.

Especially fiction writing. Like a trance. Often I do not remember me putting down the words. The deep state defies planning or plotting. I do not construct or strategise. I write.

In between those sessions I think about what I have written and wonder. Why did she say that? Was it time yet to leave that location? There was more to say about that, wasn’t there?

But many times I do not question what comes out. I trust the lead. The story has a will of its own. And when I go to the deep state at four in the morning I know I get beneath and beyond the engrained habits and clichés.

Writing the weekly essays, gathering notes, picking up phrases, shards of dialogue, seeking information, feeding the reservoir can all be done during the day, or in between, in the shallow mind. But storytelling is done from a different place. I know how to get there now. It no longer requires me to sacrifice my sleep cycle. It does demand a certain time to get there. My family knows not to get me out when I’m in. In writing mode.

I wear headphones. Often without music. Long after the playlist ends I am still in the bubble. Yes, bubble. This is not strictly a sphere. The inner realm has a shell to protect the infinite depth. The inner universe. It is a strange place. And I do not pretend to know it. It is big. It contains the dreamworld. And more. It is rich. It doesn’t just belong to the night. It is here during the day too. Like the wind it tells me to remind you. Don’t you forget about this realm. It lies waiting. I believe it is the kingdom most cannot see. It is the guide leading if allowed. It is the guard hovering with loving wings. The escape route for the imprisoned, the energy source for the depleted, the song reservoir, the library of all narratives.

Can you still hear it? Find the spot and you will know because your shape relaxes into its true form. You.

If you haven’t already, check out my book. Charlotte decides to follow the inner lead and the saga that follows is still unfolding. It will not leave her untouched. Her path will swoop you along as it invites many to a new place. You are invited too.

Here’s the deal; if you feel the call to come along then do not hesitate and drop me a mail. I will let you in. Thank me later.....if you feel like it.

My ‘plan’ to quietly allow this story to land and set foot seems destined to be overhauled by a world speeding up. I feel a sense of urgency to ‘get it out there’. If it captures you anywhere close to how it grabbed me then you’re in for a wild ride. Part one is now almost published. I am busy translating and polishing part three. And the writing is done up to part five. Six will be a live event I am working up to.

The rational part of me declares me insane on a daily basis. And while I feel hardly qualified to do this work, the story doesn’t care. It wants to be born. To be here. I need to get out of the way. Relax into it and write.

I could use your help. Giving feedback, ironing out the rough bits, spreading the story. Getting some momentum going. I do not have a team, nor an editor, or budget to speak of, or a publishing company, or time for a marketing strategy. My job is to write. You can help make this a lot easier on the practical side. I don’t need much. Live a very simple life. I do not wish to become famous or successful. I want to be read. And I want to be read now. Not in fifty years. I need allies to tell this. Up for proofreading with a front row seat?

A story like this is not too bothered with catching the smart and powerful. It bypasses them completely. It goes straight from the deep place to you, with just me messing it up in between. There is raw energy in that. Transformative energy. I’ve got the scars to prove it. Are you up for it? Do you still dare enter the imaginative realm? Or are you stuck in the factual like so many? Well then....don’t be afraid, said the angel, it is just an untold story. Yours and mine.

3.22 I will try and catch some sleep now.

(don’t forget to hit the love button… just to let me know you’ve read this one)