

“Limitations live in our minds, but if we use our imaginations, our possibilities become limitless.” ~Jamie Paolinetti; writer and director.


My poem and painting from the heart…
Secret Valley
The secrets the whisper hides,
The beauty which is never ugly,
The love essence which survives,
The honest heart which is lovely.
Of other worlds and dimensions I know not,
Of traveling beyond the stars only in imagination;
But the spirit remains like a flame within me hot,
There is greater purpose in inner contemplation.
My character and temper are often ill and quick to explosion,
And my violent anger and rushing fear then become who I am;
But there exists within me far beyond thought and emotion
A bright and powerful substance which is no heated sham.
True nature is the greatest love and the most profound peace,
And is discovered deep within me and apart from my rebellious thought;
Secret valley of greens and blues, waterfalls and birds which do not cease,
Unpolluted paradise, life itself and the loving experiences it has brought.

“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou; American poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist.
“Writer’s block is a condition, primarily associated with writing, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work, or experiences a creative slowdown. The condition ranges in difficulty from coming up with original ideas to being unable to produce a work for years. Throughout history, writer’s block has been a documented problem.” Jesus Christ!– They make it look like is some dying of brain cells or some serious and irreversible condition! I have to say, when I read this in Wikipedia I couldn’t believe how much fuss they have made over it, and this is exactly why most people see writer’s block as a real condition, like having the flu, or a stomach virus, or, even worse, a serious breathing problem or some type of mental disease or even a cancer. But, remember, what you think you become, and what you think constantly about your mind creates as reality. Reality in your life is what your mind says it is, because as you think you start believing; hence, once you start believing something, the cellular make-up in your body produces the chemicals and the sensations your body and your mind design in you as what you call writer’s block.
As a really serious writer and deep thinker, this is a very important topic for me personally; because at some point in the beginning of my career I also thought (because of all the fuss they keep making about it) that I would suffer this from time to time, and I have walked out of my computer desk just because I thought writer’s block was something real and that I had to rest my brain for a few days to heal and be ready to welcome the muse again. But, in reality, I discovered that it is just a trick of the mind, like the fear we may experience in life or the anxiety we create just by thinking about the things that can go wrong in our life. Furthermore, it is the pride we feel in writing something superb and excellent from the first line, we want that feeling of knowing that the writing is great from the get-go, we want to know that we are great in the first stroke of the pen or key-stroke of the computer; hence, it is not a real condition of the mind but the fear and impatience of creating something marvelous in the first page. And that makes it all kept under our control, and we do not have to walk out of the desk whenever we feel this, and even lose days without writing.

So, it is worth noting that which is understood at this point, that the muse or essence/power of writing is not on waiting for something divine to present itself into our minds, but the key is to demand it passively because it is our right and gift as human beings, it is essentially creative energy in our consciousness (in the consciousness of the garbage man as in the consciousness of the professional writer; however, this creative energy is more pronounced in the writer due to the mental practice and the living we make out of using it every day).
Now, as professional and serious writers we have to push through the lethargy and boredom of watching the blank page, just like the marathon runner which does have to actually start running to achieve his goals of competing in the marathon and accustom his muscles to be great at it, even though he might not feel the energy to run that particular morning. It is all about starting, even though you might not have great thoughts to start writing, even though you might not have all the details of the character or the scenery in your mind’s eye, even thought you might not have a specific path for your story or character, even though you might not have an idea to create your character, and even though you might start writing uninteresting nonsense about your story, so I repeat, IT IS ALL IN STARTING SOMETHING, your job is to write, period, so write without excuses.
While you start your writing perhaps not very interestingly, it will develop itself, ideas will start coming to you because then your conscious energy will be attracted by your commitment and strength of will (the traits of the true leader); therefore, this energy or muse is yours for the taking, and if you do your part then it will follow your wishes to succeed in your writing venture. You are the master and leader, the muse is your servant and follower; however, most writers think that they are the servants and followers of this so-called muse, just waiting for it to strike and make its appearance, just hoping to allure this substance of creativity by not chasing it and by praying that it comes on its own.
The muse or creative energy does not come to you from the conscious mind, even though we use the conscious to mold ideas and structure story plots; it comes from the subconscious, which is where imagination comes from, and we have heard many great artists say that they have gotten great ideas and art forms from their dreams and from taking nature walks–i. e. being one with this divine energy which belongs to each of us, but we need to embrace it and claim it if we are to use it to our own advantage. But, as it is, the ego (the lazy, dual and all-confusing, monkey mind) lives in the conscious mind, and this ego we can experience it more when the mind tries to wait for a “stroke of genius” to come on its own, if you will; and so it is this ego-substance which tells us that we have writer’s block, and which tells us that we are not ready to write something creative and interesting, and which tells us that we cannot come up with anything to write about.

To make it shorter, we can beat the ego by “taking the bull by the horns,” as they say, by being our own leader and demanding the right to creativity; this is done, in my own experience, by brainstorming on a piece of paper about characters, scenes, story plots, emotional and psychological content, story messages and impressions you want to express, whatever you want to write related to your story. This is also done by writing whatever you have in mind at the moment, because, the more you stare to that blank page, the more confusion and fear of writing your ego will communicate to your mind and body. Besides, remember, the real story-telling is not in the clarity and strength of your first draft, but it is in the editing; thus, the editing makes the story attractive because you are clearer in your vision, but for this clarity to come and appear you need a first draft (it does not matter what it looks like).
So, keep writing without being a perfectionist, which kills the art; see, true art is not about perfection, but true art is about human vulnerability and emotional expression. This moves people, it connects people. Nobody on earth is perfect, so perfection does not connect people, it distances people and it distances you from your real art. Do not be afraid of writing and developing ideas. You are in command if you wish to be and start writing patiently but steadily. Rome was not built in a day.






This is my personal story:


Once, our planet was just a thought in the mind of a novelist…

Billions over billions over billions of years ago, in a far galaxy, there existed an alien humanoid with a very odd, but highly creative, idea…
At eight o’clock on Monday morning LaCoke Doosh did not feel particularly good. He struggled to his feet, got up, wandered bleary-eyed ‘round his large room, opened his Roman-style arched windows, stuck out his head to breathe in fresh air, saw a bulldog, and let out a most foul language when bird-droppings landed right on his head. “MOTHER******!”
That was when one of his neighbors heard him, Mrs. Nagalot. A sixty-three lightyear old widow that LaCoke didn’t like that much–actually not at all. She didn’t like him either, or people, period! “Hey, put a damn sock in it, Doosh! Some of us like mornings without your potty mouth!!” she yelled from her patio.
He reached for a towel on the chair which was next to the window. “Sorry, Mrs. Nagalot!” he said with a big, teeth-filled smile, while also wiping the bird caca from his face. “…You old bag.” He made sure that that last one was only for himself to hear. Dropped the towel onto the floor and shot a look at his messy room. “Ugh– I’ll clean it up sometime. Now I gotta whiz like a race horse!” Found his slippers and stomped off to the bathroom to do his business.
After shower, toothpaste on the brush so— Scrub.
After scrubbing, a few gargles to kill bad breath— Shinny smile. “Damn–” He felt some pressure within the plumbing. Then some silent and toxic gases left the building.
Shaving cream and Trimette razor spotted. Crooked shaving mirror—he adjusted it just right. A few funny faces, while looking for wrinkles and adoring his new nose. For a moment, the mirror reflected a second bulldog in his room— Oh, how he hated that nasty bulldog Mrs. Nagalot had gotten as a gift on her sixty-first lightyear birthday! It would make the little hairs on his ass stand up. Properly adjusted the mirror, it also reflected LaCoke Doosh’s awkward sideburns. He shaved them off, washed, dried and went downstairs to get some breakfast.
Kitchen scene— Plug-in, coffeemaker, sugar, cup, spoon, Supernova’s coffee cakes. Fridge— Milk, cream, Coca Cola. Yawn.
The image of his creation wandered throughout his wobbly mind in search of something to connect with or to focus on. The sole word, he thought it was cool. Maybe even his best creation yet. “Readers will love it.”
He stared at it.
Blue. It is a good color, isn’t it? He took the last sip of coffee and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.
Passing a large, squared mirror which was hanging from the circular wall next to his bedroom, he peered with more detail at his ugly reflection on it. Mmmm– Something was odd. Definitely uglier this morning. He then began to suspect that he was hangover. . . Why am I hangover? Didn’t drink that much last night. Only twenty rocket beers. Thirty cherry ass-blasters. And, umm, five pipe rusters. But due to the late, slight pounding in his head and the bags around his eyes, he supposed he could be. He then caught a glint in the mirror. “Blue?… Blue…,” he hissed, and kept on to the bedroom.
He paused in place and thought, Try harder, c’mon… The pub!, he mused excitedly. Oh flicksters, the pub! He vaguely remembered being angry, defending something that meant a lot to him. Something that seemed very important at the time. He’d been telling people about it. They had asked him. At his greatest visual recollection, that was of glazed looks on people’s faces, he saw them laughing at his idea until puking, mocking it terribly. Mocking the new sci-fi novel he was writing. I mean, it was a good idea. The fact that the High Council hadn’t created a new planet in a hundred lightyears weighted, some people even had forgotten that they still did that. What do they know? They are just drunkies! He championed the idea all the way, and he thought that a planet of mostly water wasn’t that ridiculous to begin with anyway.
God!– What a terrible hangover it had earned him though. Terrible because it was growing and sounding like a loud banging of drums. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his hairy, purple tongue– “Aaaaaahh!…” Blue, he thought.
The word ‘blue’ wandered through his wobbly mind in search of something to connect with…

Blop– Blop– Globules of dreams. Spherical forms of happiness and misery. Color changing bubbles reflecting her soul and mine, what was gained, what was lost. At times red. At times blue. At times bright recollections, thousands of them, of a past alive and fresh. At times obscure reminders, millions of them, of a past so miserable and frustrating which I could not bear for the life of me.
Blop– Blop– The new house on the valley of roses and thorns. That fateful night of pure romance. My soul-twin. And the warm touch of her hand. The faucet dripping. The cat which I never loved. Those Teddy bears which mocked me when I passed our room. I had made my demands and she had made hers, but it all had been a whirlwind and no one had known what had happened. I did swim deeply in the love she had offered, even though I had hated her amusements and characters. And so she had hated mine.
Blop– Blop– We had been lovers and enemies. I see that through the bubbles now. I surrender to many things now, my immaturity and blindness, my ego and arrogant ways… But I recognize now through the color-changing bubbles that my surrendering comes too late. Too late. The car had deviated from its path and the bridge had marked the next event, and so it had been too late for us… The bubbles… The bubbles were awaiting patiently. And maybe. Maybe it was written in the stars. Maybe it was written in our souls. Only God knows that.
Blop– Blop– The depth is incredible, there are fish here and it is beautiful, spirits of love and tenderness among my recollections of happiness and sadness; I keep seeing through its mirror, I keep seeing her and she smiles. And our flesh and thought is old now, dying, dead, because of the bubbles, and because of the car… The car which forged our destiny, the end of our happiness and misery, the end of our love and hate.
“Writing means sharing. It’s part of the human condition to want to share things–thoughts, ideas, opinions.” ~ Paulo Coelho; Brazilian lyricist and novelist.
Throughout history, without exceptions, man has always felt the necessity to express himself, as part of his biology and as a way to know himself and his innermost thoughts and feelings; because keeping them inside only makes the human experience not worth it, for human beings are a collection of billions around the world with different beliefs and experiences, but in essence, beyond all thought and form, we are all really one and that is why we struggle to express our current human individuality through various forms of expression. So the urge is spiritual or coming from the energy which makes this human form and thought we carry around, and we transform this urge into writing, painting, sculpting, filmmaking, photography, dancing, performing, the act of sex, violence, arguments, relationships, sports, etc. etc.
Writing and the development of writing is specially freeing to me because it allows me to know myself in detail, I get to look deep within me and find everything and anything which makes me who I am as a human expression, everything and anything which creates my thinking and feeling, and so I get to experience how my thoughts arise and fall and how my emotions flow constantly up and down like a roller coaster. Pouring your thoughts and emotions give you absolute freedom and power over yourself, because writing is a detailed form of expression; and besides that, it is creative, no matter what you write if it comes from your heart, and creativity is the only outlet to manifest the past, present, and future of our perspectives in this life, and creativity is what flows all around us and within us.

Writing is a most influential way to communicate and wake people to other views and realities, as people tend to create their own views and realities so it is essential to understand and absorb the experiences of others in order to better ourselves and widen our mental horizons. Quite often, more than we would like to admit, one feels overwhelmed and confused by superficial thoughts and stresses of ever day, so in this way it is very important to observe our inner condition and let it all out through the sharing process. At the physiological and also psychological levels, we need to take care of our mental frustrations and stressful data overflowing our nerves, which has a giant effect on our immune system.
In order to avoid illnesses of the mind and of the body, being creative and self-expressive in our writing are two things that must go hand in hand; opposite to this, if we repress one or the other within us and negate of either its existence, then, we will clutter inside and become filled by all this–i.e. no real creativity is expressed from us, and so this will cloud our rationality and influence our thoughts and behaviors towards our own selves and towards others, this will then bring much suffering into our relationships and into all endeavors in our life.
We need to be open with ourselves and honest with ourselves, because in this self-absorbed society, where everyone is rushing everywhere, there is no knowledge of self to taste real freedom; and, through creative and self-expressive writing you can achieve to motivate others to taste that same freedom and/or learn from your own experiences, connecting thus all humanity and bringing a higher conscious awareness.

Absolutely no being is born into this world with evil or with hatred towards anything, because the pure heart does not produce evil, the pure, untainted heart only produces the natural condition, love, peace and bliss, which are one unity, one condition of wholeness, the one existent and irrevocable truth, one universal consciousness, ONENESS, complete harmony and perfection; but, however, evil and erroneous belief is created by thought, by human conditioning, by weakness of our own choosing when we attach to a rigid mindset, when we follow other weak and poisoned minds. Because we have all forgotten our natural state or condition of love and unity, and thus felt fear, doubt, without purpose, being led by our mundane and egotistical physical senses, which run amok untamed and unguarded, our perception of reality becomes narrow and confused and we start thinking darkly and empty; as in we need something, we are not whole, we need security, we need love to be whole again, we need a leader to straighten our path and guide us because we feel too weak and ordinary, maybe even broken by our past or by our vices, to find it alone.

