Thomas Sullivan

My first word was “Boo!” and I’ve loved surprises ever since.  I want to discover things.  Refine that, I want to discover hidden things, things that have meaning.  I want there to be more than five senses can take in.  Five senses are standard issue.  Most critters with fin, skin, fur or feathers have them, often with a superior specialty.  Jack rabbits out-hear me.  Eagles out-see me.  I’m tied with the koala bear.  But word has it that heart, mind and soul are strong suits for the human clay, and these have a type of sensory perception that respond to a whole different set of stimuli.  They feed off meanings, connections, patterns and intangible things that are bigger than life.  And mine also flourish on surprises.   So I look for that which is behind the scenes, under the surface, or “manifestly” invisible.  My physical senses pick up the obvious stuff, the bows, ribbons and colorful exteriors that gift-wrap life, but my heart, mind and soul go for what’s inside the package.  If it’s people I’m looking at, the package contains their wants and their fears, and if I can see inside the package I’ll know everything important about them – their motives, their responses, their lines in the sand.  And if it’s nature I’m looking at, the package contains the voice of the universe, whispered by stars and whatever force is behind creation.  The voice carries grandeur, excitement, meaning and truth.  I want to hear the voice of God and think about it.

Does that make me a writer?  Maybe a species of writer.  A poet.  Check that.  I still have to transmit the poetry in order to be a writer, don’t I?  And I have to find the poetry in every reader in order to be read with appreciation.  So I’m writing this to every writer who has an ounce of poetry in them (you all do) and to every reader capable of recognizing that five senses are not enough equipment to take along for a potentially incredible ride through life.

Trouble is, the world seems bent on ignoring its poetry.  Cut me some slack, please.  I’m going to bundle the words poetry, romance, ideals, heroes and perfection together for no other reason than they all seem to be in short supply in this disbelieving age.  They all sound bigger than life to me, and bigger than life is what I want to distill.  I’m talking magic, things that sing with a rhythm that transcends routine.  Natural poetry, if you will.  Trust me, it’s out there.  Or rather it’s in there.  Inside your head, your feelings, your soul.  Eye of the beholder, eye of the believer, and all that.  But shhh…please don’t let that get around.  Especially you readers.  The poets union is going to be on my case, as it is, for revealing trade secrets.  Can’t have everyone creating their own poetry willy-nilly.  Writers rule!  So if you’re not a writer, plant yourself indoors and sink your roots into the Scothguard brocade of the sofa, while you wait for bigger-than-life to magically appear on Cable and mesmerize you.  But do not – I repeat DO NOT – take things into your own hands by pulling the plug on the TV and sticking your fingers into the world’s sockets, because then you won’t need us.  Can’t have you finding out you are the finest generator of interesting content ever made.  That’s how a writer gets a leg up.  They do primary research and report to you.  And if you’re a writer, or a writer in process, bathe your senses in whatever you experience, but then take it inside your mind and dwell on it like a guru on acid.  Do not multi-task.  Transcendental yourself.  That way you may learn how to think, how to see the world, which is impossible to do in dumbed down circumstances.  So tear up the script.  Write your own.  You are unique.  Then give yourself an Emmy (Emmy, Emmy…an enema is what you get when you visit the marketplace – whole other essay).

Writer or reader, most people suffer from a contagious disease called “passivity,” characterized by a lack of imagination.  It’s generally harmless, except for lost living time – sort of like sleeping on the job.  But if you’re a writer, it’s downright lethal.  Some people are born with an immunity, or a hyper-gene for imagination, but everyone has some natural resistance to passivity.  If you’ve lost yours, the best way to reacquire it is to concentrate without distraction until you can make walls collapse and to stay away from voluntarily boring people.  You can tell if people are voluntarily boring because they will say they are themselves bored or otherwise surrender initiative.  The second best way to get in touch with your imagination is to connect yourself with reservoirs of inspiration.  That can be a place, an activity, or a person.  In my case, my mentor was a tree.

I first met Evergreen as I was skiing around a turn.  It wasn’t just the front-row seat he had taken to hang out on the corner that drew my attention, but rather his infirmity.  He was missing his lowest overhanging boughs.  Moreover, they had obviously been lopped off.  I stopped.  “Ouch, I bet that hurt,” I said.  He said nothing, conveying the impression of wisdom; and the fact that the rest of him was throbbingly green and thriving suggested strength of character.  We talked.  Or rather he listened, which confirmed the impression of stately wisdom.  “Aren’t you bored just standing here?” I blathered.  But he answered naught.  Could be autistic, crossed my mind.  I decided to give him a test.  “When you see a cloud, do you just see…a cloud?”  Naught squared.  A genius!  Of course he saw more than a cloud.  How could he not?  Standing there, seeing every cloud of every sky of every day in his corner of the universe?  He was too wise to answer, that’s all.  How could you stare at the cosmos 24/7, non-stop naked infinity, as the moon and the sun trade numberless shifts, and life and death play out before you, leaving telltale tracks in the snow or trails in the grass as the seasons come and go, observing mating, hunting, the answering of territorial imperatives through droughts and times of plenty, storms and Halcyon days, witnessing miracles in the light of day and dark magic in the night, and not learn all there is to learn?  And you know, there has never been a time since, when I have passed that tree, that I have not felt an amazing thought or emotion.  So Evergreen has become my reservoir of inspiration.   I do not know if he is religious, but then he surely knows more of God than any religion trapped behind four walls within the petty politics and shifting moralities of civilization.  So I usually murmur a nondenominational, “May our prayers be granted, tree,” as I pass by.  And Evergreen rewards me by saying naught.

But I digress.  I was lamenting that the world seems bent on ignoring its poetry.  I can propound a dozen reasons for this, though at bottom I think it’s a throwback to a 19^th century conflict.  The Virgin and the Dynamo met head on during the Industrial Revolution, and the Virgin lost everything but her virginity.  It was an age when spiritual values collided with the razzmatazz of mechanized ways of doing things.  Up reared the factories, pulling an agrarian world into the future.  No, I’m not ranting about pollution or globalization.  But in an increasingly pre- packaged world where needs were met and delivered by third parties, people were beginning to lose their connections with the natural world, with self-reliance and their own inner resources.  Hard to be philosophical in a large and meaningful way when you are shrinking into a complex mega-society where everyone and everything is specialized.  The John Stuart Mill classical education went by the boards, and broadly learned generalists became an endangered species.  And that was just the beginning.  We saw a resurgence of humanism here and there in the 20^th century, but technology (and I love it) advanced as Toffler said it would in FUTURE SHOCK.  Too much information spread over too many fields to be assimilated and put into perspective.  So the push was toward becoming a cog in the great machine of humanity and knowing little of how the other cogs work.  Jay Leno’s JayWalks and Glenn Beck’s Moron Trivia reveal a frightening vacuum between the ears of those poised to inherit the Earth.  But you really only needed to listen to the media’s talking heads over the past 30 years since they anointed themselves in trios and quartets on raised daises to find the same appalling ignorance and lack of context.  And that increasingly activist media is the surrogate parent, educator and peer representative for us all.  So it’s very hard to be independent these days, very hard to rely on your own imagination and develop an informed and encompassing view of life.  Much easier to just have it fed you according to your time and place and circumstances.  And if you can’t get beneath the conditioning and indoctrination of our times, you are to a greater degree derivative.  BUT…if you are or want to become one of those rare people who still know where the primary sources are, and you can fight your way out of the sheltering cocoon that comes pretty much automatically with modern living, you just might become an original.  Seems to me a writer must do this, if they want something to say.  And finding the poetry in life is a good place to start, because it is almost synonymous with those words I cited earlier: romance, ideals, heroes and perfection – all casualties of a jaded, more cynical world that came with the savvy of a fast-transit, mass communication, pc-connected, hi-tech, dynamo-wins-over-virgin age.  But can you understand a jaded world without having a vision for a perfect one?  Don’t negative things imply the existence of positives?  There is no night without day, no pain without pleasure, no death without life.  I want to go where the light and warmth are.  I want to live and write where beauty and wisdom remind me of that, even if I show it by reversing it in a dark mirror.  Five senses are good for digesting fast food and taking in life’s re-runs.  Heart, mind and soul can make truth dance and awaken sleeping dreams.  Let me discover and relay the surprises.  And if the world won’t give me that, I’ll find the poetry within myself and plant it wherever I go.  Johnny Appleseed would understand.   

Thanks for reading. Your thoughts are welcome, your attention valued.  If you’d like to see more of my writing, please check out a free sample chapter from THE WATER WOLF on my website.  My free monthly newsletter is separate from this column and the mailing list is growing by leaps and bounds.  I’ll be happy to send it to you if you email me at: mn333mn@earthlink.net   Older newsletters are now being added to the website (www.thomassullivanauthor.com) but unfortunately we can only include new photos with the e-mailed version.  You can also get to my past columns right there with the newsletter on my web page under News & Articles, or if you want to go month by month to the 16^th in the SU archives, they are available that way as well.

Thomas “Sully” Sullivan
http://www.thomassullivanauthor.com/