Digging, digging, digging for a special archaelogical expedition. Unlike most archaeologists, I am not out in the desert of Egypt trying to uncover King Tut’s hidden family. Rather, I am digging deep for the treasures that lay beneath my brain cells.
When writer’s block hits the terrain, it’s as dry as the Eastern desert. When an idea strikes & I find my treasure from days of digging. The terrain evolves from the Eastern desert to Downtown Manhattan. Lively, bustling & bursting with stimulation is what my imagination becomes.
My most amazing ideas usually arrive in life’s my offbeat moments. Laying in bed listening to 80’s music, suddenly this amazing idea arrives. So, I quickly turn on the lights or even type it on my iPHONE, assuring it will not be forgotten tomorrow. Looking for an idea is the equivalent of looking for love. When you don’t seek love , it will find you.
However, I do keep a list of things & experiences which inspire me. Most prominently, I’m heavily influenced by my life in both California & New York, being gay, my strict Catholic school upbringing, the many adventures I’ve had abroad (spent time in Tokyo, London, Paris, Madrid, Sydney, Buenos Aires, etc), quirky life experiences, music ( love 80’s stuff i.e. 80’s new wave & 90’s alternative rock) & my curiosity about the world.
So far, I’m well lived for a twenty-something. The yearning for more life experiences fuels my imagination. I’m still very curious to see more of the United States, since I’ve spent my life in Blue state America.
I’d also love to visit Brazil & see it’s oddly shaped mountain majesties. My primary goal is to eliminate monotony & open myself to new experiences. The more new places I experience & people met, the more I can write about later.
Currently, I’m listening to R.E.M. while driving through the next archaelogical expedition of my head. As I arrive at my site of discovery, I dig up.
What will I find in my head? Will it be a story about a most scenic road trip to Cambria, CA back in 95? a tale of boy who spent too much time in East Village coffee houses? or a simple tale of the joy of watching Charlie Chaplin films at grandma’s house? Time will only tell what will be dug out from the depth of my brain cells.