May 25, 2005

This is a weird one.  I considered not posting it.  (I promise I won’t post them all.)  However, I found the second dream fascinating, and the improvisational flow of the post satisfying in a way I’d love to get back to, if somehow I could.

So, if you've been following my last few postings (and I can't really think of a sound reason you should) you'll know that a strange mandate has crystallized for me. To wit: I'm going to keep writing and posting at least five hundred words a day until my second child arrives. Yes, it's my own odd version of the filibuster. I'm completely committed to literally daylogging that baby out of my wife's womb. Absurd, you say? Anymore or less absurd than continuing to write here, or anywhere?

I'm suddenly reminded, as I often am, of the story of the Hopi Indians that Elaine Pagels likes to tell as an example of religious ridiculousness, but really just winds up looking ridiculous herself for posing so superior. Apparently a particular sect goes through an elaborate ceremony to make the sun rise every morning. When asked what would happen if one morning they simply neglected to perform the rite, they reply: "Oh sure, let's plunge the world into eternal darkness for the sake of your stupid experiment."

And so it is with us writers. Nearly every one of us got into the game because we believed our writing could make the world a better place; and nearly every one of us who stayed in the game came to realize that writing can't make the world better; it can only make it bigger. And there's a lot to be said for that; but let's not fool ourselves into believing we can make a baby be born or the sun rise. Unless of course, it makes us happy, or gives us an excuse to reach out, plug in, take time, get smart, fall on our knees, be human.

Last night I had the classic big wave dream. I'm at the beach. The surf is enormous, gloriously intimidating. Do I surf it? How do I surf it without drowing? Man, I wanna surf it!

Then I dreamt that some sort of Zen monk was telling a story to a young woman about a stone carver who was carving the perfect stone to use as a counter-weight in some simple machine being built for the temple. The stone was exquisite, beautiful, but it was much too big for the carver to carry over to the machine. Then the monk telling the story obliged with the solution: one must break the stone in two. Wave of enlightenment crashes over all characters in my dream: the monk and the woman lose themselves in each other's laughter. You have to break the perfect stone in two.

Uh . . . yeah, I have no idea either really. Just inklings.

I wish I could write like the writer of my dreams.

Heather spent the morning pulling weeds in the front garden, hoping to "get something started." More absurdity. It's like eating spicy foods or having sex to trigger labor: all science on the issue emphatically cries, "bunk!" But then again, the garden did need weeding, spicy food can be yummy and . . . well. . . you get the picture.

As of this five hundred-and-fortieth word, Baby Mullin Two remains unborn. The perfect stone, unbroken.

Comments

[Kymberlee della Luce]

I'm really glad you posted it. I drank in every word.

I like this line best of all: "the monk and the woman lose themselves in each other's laughter"

I like it because it takes me back to all the times I have been in that place with another, the time my brother and I made my mom pee when she was pregnant by making her laugh (mercilessly) and the numerous times I've watched my kids laugh uproariously with each other and marveled at their connection.

Your writing made my world a better place today. It's already quite vast but you made it more beautiful and more human.

You might have even inspired me give birth to something that is waiting to be born with me.

Thank you.

[Paul Mullin]

Kymberlee,

Thank you so much for your comment. Posting these old daylogs has felt at times a bit vacuous. But if I touched you it makes it all worthwhile.

Cheers!
Paul

[Darian]

Sometimes I forget that there is another Paul. Not the Paul I normally run into in the break room who is ranty and constructive and angry and hilarious. And don't get me wrong. I LOVE that Paul. But he can make me temporarily forget about the Paul whose writing can surprise me by being simultaneously funny, earnest and sweet. The Paul who wrights and crafts is great - the witty can barely be contained. But the Paul who breathes and loves and dreams is effortless joy.

Darian

[Paul Mullin]

Thank you, Darian. You move me truly with this comment. I like that other Paul, too. I promise not to always keep him in the closet, even though he IS pretty shy.