Melanie Gets Literary


Writing (Photo credit: jjpacres)

The following is an entry I wrote on the steps of the mighty cathedral in Santiago:

I just ate a huge salmon pizza with capers.  Now I’m sitting here on the steps of the cathedral on my last day here in Santiago.  I’m smoking cigarettes.  

As I look around at life, at the bicyclists in their spandex, the pilgrims wearing worn attire, the freshly powdered people in clean linens, sun hats and stately camera’s slung around their necks, I sit and wonder why?  What’s it all for?  I mean really, what the hell is it all for anyway?

How I feel right now should be bottled up and kept as the basis for where I begin, but never end.

The eternal remembrance of the past brings into fruition my own vast eternal being.  In this moment I have fullness and the season of spring sits in my heart.

The infinite dimensional possibilities arouse my intellect and desires.  What do I desire that’s outside this moment of fullness?  What piques my curiosity?  What mistakes do I hunger for to place into my expanding experience?

I desire knowledge and inspiration.  Love is inspiration, experience is knowledge.  I imbibe life and let it reflect my image back at me, letting me see and believe in who or what I am.

I’m just a girl sitting on the steps of a cathedral that’s older than the spiraling ashes it sits upon.

What do I want written on this canvas of life?  How can I capture the essence of my abysmally deep personality and transform my written words into plastic masses of pigment that coil around this physical helix?

More depth, more reflection, more solitude, the more colorful my world becomes.  But when alone, I see less of my reflection when inhabiting my own island (mind).  If you are one with your illness, you will never see it.  

I know others well, can relate well because I see myself in them.  Their problems are my problems, only unrealized – they have not yet acquired the plastic coiling pigment that surrounds my reality.  

To know others deeply, you in turn, know yourself.  

Paint.  Paint it all – paint what’s in your heart and you’ll see.  Go through it, pass through it, make mistakes, feel the hurt or rush of fear and keep walking.  Keep walking until you emerge here on the steps of a cathedral in Spain.  Having walked through your pain, anointing your tears in blessed water and rejoicing in the life that awaits you in front of this gilded alter of God.  Along with the bicyclists in their spandex, the pilgrims in their worn clothes, the powdery white linen people.

I’m here now.  The part in me that never changes is the one place I must return to time and time again.  The sanctity of quiet and stillness.  The moment of now and always.  All else is meaningless.  Time is eternal on these steps, just the same with me.

You capture your self worth and value while walking a pilgrimage.  You go deeper into your true nature.  Deeper into the abstract beauty of curiosity.  You feel more, want to understand more.  You understand that pain is fleeting both the emotional and the physical.  It’s all a spiral, all just a record of a song played repeatedly.  You understand that experience brings about knowledge and love let’s you see all, be all.  There would be no truth or wisdom without love.

I’m 33 and it has taken me long to come into my being.

I also wrote this:

The page of the universe has no sides or corners, no up or down.  If you write on its page, as I’m doing now – writing on this page in space – I have written in eternal ink.  It has always been written.  And if every possible outcome, thought, occurrence has already been written, and if that canvas is infinite, impossible to search – than how do we know what can and what is?  It’s in the ability to focus.  Know your words ahead of the time you seek them.

Do I know what any of it means?  Not entirely, but at times when that pen hits the paper, I write stuff and have no idea where it comes from.

When  I was a kid, my head was a constant mess of tangles.  My mother would cut out all the destitute tangles that she didn’t feel like combing through.  It was less painful for me, and easier for her.  But in my experience with ayahuasca, the Camino, life..etc, you can’t keep cutting out the tangles or else you’d be left with nothing.  There would be no you, only a superficial facade of normality.  Smooth and sterilized for the likings of you and for others.

We are faced with certain adventures – we desire certain experiences because there we find resistance.  A resistance that shouldn’t be cut out.  It shouldn’t be cut out because it’s part of you – an inspiration you have not yet found.

All anyone does is cut and run.  Cut and run, that’s what they do.  I drink, I smoke, I write and I experience – I delve.  Is it healthy to do so?  Is my writing just another addiction akin to the habits I built to make me feel better?

You know, I’m sitting here at Cheshire coffee writing all this knowing that none of it matters.  None of it!  Not a lick.  Nope, not a lick of a tootsie pop.  But I still do it.  It feels so empty.  It’s like watching that performance art show I seen in the modern art museum in Madrid.  None of it matters and the only sense it makes is found in the person reading / watching it.  And most people reading this, or watching a performance art show will say, “Bah creative people are so dramatic.”

Bah they would say, just like sheep.  The ego blinds.  The sheep only see’s white, only themselves.  All is white with the world.

I believe that through mindful choices that has you moving forward and evolving, is what keeps you sane in this insane world.  The only problem with that lies in the tangles, the messes you’re too afraid to confront – you’re too afraid because they are your messes, your tangles, your karma – and who wants to face that?  Letting go of your old self feels like death.


I’m hungry.  This is my second cup of latte and it’s chilly in here, I’m so jittery.  It feels so good to write.  It’s settling.  It keeps me from chasing the next bull, the next addiction that keeps me from stepping off this wild ride of life.

This is the first day back from Spain where I can officially relax myself enough to write.  I have no plans today, no obstacles or distractions.

I cleaned my car, went rollerblading and danced and sang like a fool – it was magnificent.  Five clients booked themselves online for a massage today, so I have money coming in.  I’m living large and in charge.

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Filed under All about me, philosophy, random thoughts, Self help, Writing

2 responses to “Melanie Gets Literary

  1. Jim E

    Hi Melanie,

    I don’t claim get all of what you’ve written here, but did enjoy the images and impressions it invokes. To be sure, there’s a lot more to life than what we think it is. There is a higher power outside of us, loving us and holding everything together. Tied up and curved in as we are in our selves and our day to day activities, we really have a tough time wrapping our heads around the truth that all that grace is there, so near you can smell it. You’re living large, but you’re not (and I’m not) in charge. None of us is.

    Jim E

    • It was one of those days where I just sat and wrote not knowing what would spurt out of me. If people move their ego’s aside, they can see the grace. I was lucky enough to have experienced it at least twice in my life. Man I hate my ego big time.

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