Geographical Creativity in Three Sources

1. The Nature of Creativity edited by Robert J. Sternberg circa 1988
2. The Twentieth Edition of Oxford’s Atlas of the World
3. A notebook I filled during end of 2012 and the beginning of 2013, while in California.

Context A: Benson, a grey and white 7 1/2 year old maine coon I adopted three months ago perches on the atlas and periodically climbs onto the computer in attempt to reclaim my attention. I push him off and he bites my finger.

Context B: It is 4:25 in the afternoon. Bottom edges of flat clouds in the direction of Mt. Rainier are rosy-lined.  I just drank a mug of black coffee and I’m listening to the Lonely Forest (R.I.P). At 8 I have to work for the University of Washington, delivering transfer items from downtown Seattle to Tacoma and back. The bookstore has a guarantee for customers who order books to/from specific branches. If ordered, I make sure the item is at whichever store by the next morning.

Context C: Nothing here. Author left it blank.

Context D:  I just took migraine medication for the onset of bleary vision, which usually precedes an attack of my body against itself. It might make me fall asleep for awhile. Surely, it will ruin my capacity to study French or revise a short story on creation/destruction or write about Washington Irving’s opinions on Shakespeare’s writing process. Talk about a transition.

Paris has 10,620,000 inhabitants. The second most inhabited city in France is Marseille at 1,489,000.

Creativity is a mystery, and many people believe that it should remain a mystery. It should not be scrutinized too closely, says the anxious Romantic, because there is a danger in knowing too much about it. If we discover its sources, they may dry up.
//// November 11, 2012 Hey what’s good, insomnia? Oh you know just thinking about how it would be to drink champagne on the floor cross legged on straw mats with soft introspective music soothing from a non-intrusive source, the lighting dim aside from flickering candles, hear me, here me yell wonderful stories and elongate details to the depth of our shadows as never before, never again, we’re well aware. The crisp voiced angel comes to mind again. Manifest. My legs kick ceaselessly, restless, off-beat, thinking about naked women and color wheels. I don’t like meeting with 3am like this, like being jumped in the alleyway of the night, so violent and uninvited. I want to sleep peacefully with you, 3am. Instead, even with the Arizona dreamcatcher hanging directly above me, I keep having vivid lucid dreams about incredible sleeplessness.\\\\

The cynical Realist asserts a different proposition: Those who cannot create study those who can.

Few students of creativity have stopped to define what it is that they are studying.

Beethoven is a particularly interesting case, because he improvised with such fluency and brilliancy that his extemporaneous works were considered by some of his contemporaries to be better than his compositions. Yet his notebooks show that he composed with the greatest of difficulty. (Melody lines crossed out and replaced infinitely, pages torn, blood spilled.)

Large sprawling cities are often considered unsustainable because they consume huge amounts of resources and produce vast amounts of waste.

//// beauty pervades everything, your smile is jazz club sunshine, bite your nails to the quick, and choose the easier written words to decide\\\\

True originality evolves as the individual goes beyond what others had done before. Paradoxically, this means that in order to produce something new, one should first become as knowledgeable as possible about the old… to modify early products that are not satisfactory.

(people awakened at night; unstable objects overturned) They usually happen at depths varying from 5 to 20 miles. Most initial loss of life occurs due to secondary causes such as falling masonry, fires, and flooding.

“I admire their brash impracticality and wonder if, in some way, their reckless enthusiasm for art, conceived and nurtured in an increasingly money-driven age, represents their unconscious protest against the age… as well as the lovely madness of their dreams.” -Roger Rosenblatt

1. He has specified the wind, to make it the wind of autumn, and therefore the dying of the year.

2. He has made the presence of oncoming death unseen, save in its effects on the leaves – presumably once green, they have lost the sap of springtime and the vigorous hue of summer and are now pale, black, yellow, or hectic red, the last overwhelmed fling of impulse.

3. The leaves are driven like ghosts, fleeing from a tyrannical enchanter; they are scurrying, eager to get away.

4. The leaves are multitudes: frightened exiles, old folks and orphans, all homeless, driven by the onward rush of pestilence, an unchecked destructive power.

Depression: large area of low barometric pressure, a few thousand miles across.

//// If every time I hit a note on a guitar a word came with it, I’d pay a hell of a lot more attention to what I’m playing \\\\

Images like these proved too difficult.

Heaviest snowfall (continuous): Bessans, Savoie, France, 68 inches [1,730mm] in 19 hours, April 5-6, 1969.

Highest recorded temperature: Al Aziziyah, Libya, 135.9 F. [57.7 C], September 13, 1922.

How is the choice among options made? Sometimes it depends on principle.

////learn natural harmonies with the metallic objects in my life\\\\

“A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving” -Lao Tzu

experimental music

It’s late. I’m drowsy from driving
and lifting boxes and trying
not to feel uncomfortable.
When my sweater fits like a second skin
but something grows between the layers,
an unreachable itch,
and the wipers sound off
for almost a mile before
a grey, starless night
and abstract noises
dominate the radio waves,
spiraling out
arms of many galaxies,
sent from the branches
of the arteries growing
in between your layers of skin,
vibrating the particles
finding a home within them to rest and cease.
Our nonchalance helped
ginger beer and distiller’s reserve
feeling like an old man with
freshmen french classmates
making a mockery
of how my hair looks
when flowing behind my head
beautifully in the wind
and the romantic kiss under the tower
gardens erupting in our eyes
as if it wasn’t just tongue
spit and gnawing at your lips
but our nonchalance did help
it was cool, you know
barely even mattered.
So I amplify the sound of crumpling paper
{as in another overthought first draft}
and layer it beneath
experimental swellings of
a moog synthesizer
and a history of electronic music
when signals were without tones
considered in the vocabulary of music
a random code has returned to melody
math is now music
and vice versa
I could amplify the sound of your breath
leaving and returning at the pink
hair dye stained pillow case
in the double stacked mattress bed
the forget me not green tangle design
and your breathing could be a symphony
a binary code to identify
the quality of your air
in and out
plucking of an acoustic guitar
in and out
nylon strings
math, vocab, hair dye, and a cut
a pipe organ feed through tremolo
concentric wobbling
connecting cables that shouldn’t
to invent biological music
genetic code to our essence
that makes the fire starting art instinct
in us to create without boundaries or care
in and out
a piano soiree with a concert hall full of black and white keys
to unlock nothing