So, I'm trying to get over my writer's rust. It's a bit difficult when you're writing and/or thinking in a scientific manner for about eight hours a day. I did a post for the blog at work today. Someone asked me, "Do I ever see myself working here again?" Well, at first I was torn about it. And then I watched the last lecture again. I also, read this:
Roll the Dice by Charles Bukowski
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.
go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.
if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.
do it, do it, do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.
I realized upon reading this that I would have rather never lived at all than died knowing I didn't do everything to pursue my dreams...
And now for some of my own work:
The Best Way to Hurt
Silencing the silence of the city streets at four in the morning
She pulls down the smoked window frames; obscure portraits
Of pavement that tell a story of no cabs, no people, no escape.
She dreamt of fame. Now she dreams of sleep.
The flickering lights on the corner illuminate:
Plastic trash cans, beer bottles, and fallen leaves.
For a moment, she almost weeps.
But it would only ruin her mascara.
In the alleys, she could run, the sordid air undressing her hair,
Visions of midnight trysts with a dream man playing rapidly;
His speech clearly comprehensible and likely full of meaning,
Like all of her favorite lines from romantic motion pictures
And the calls she makes skyward as if half hoping for a response,
“Everywhere, I feel the underwhelming presence of absence.”
A glass of Merlot on the sill,
Sprouts like flora from whitewashed wood.
One window-rose
Lacking both provenance and suitor -
Acceptance is unrequited.
Acrid smoke rises from the chimneys, gutters, and power plants.
She extends what’s left of her heart. It is done in quiet.
After all, “the best way to hurt sometimes is not to make a sound.”
Shelf Life
Blankets of white wading to water in the spring,
A first love fleeing while days grow in duration,
Leaving faith behind as muddied snow subsides -
The sentiments of one man recalling adolescence.
But, oh, how I, his invaluable child, outlive him.
I have been trafficked in a box to a bookstore,
Watched as users and casual perusers passed by,
Waited for the desperate wanderer to notice;
I have ventured to the Atlantic Coast at sunset,
Sand blowing in my face with strength enough
To scare every man if they scarred just as easily.
If only they had as many layers of story to tell.
I have been tattooed with the thoughts of others;
Acquainted with each, they all inked a testimony.
I have evoked emotions from many broken people.
I have cuts in my deepest layers from being used
Too frequently like a child’s favorite stuffed toy.
Stains of ash water, beer, coffee, cigarette smoke
Cover me, each irrevocable.
I have felt the loneliest person on any given night
Cry themselves to sleep after getting to know me.
In our bond, humanity slowly becomes real at last:
They’ve not wept near anyone in their entire life.
A Minor Revolution Near Meadow Street 2007
Mellifluous dirty blonde dripped down your
Narrow clavicle; blowing in the wind’s direction
Like daffodils in early spring.
For an instant, I surveyed your face,
Taking note of two tenuous strands,
How they kissed at your frost bitten nose.
Oh, winter…
Holy Romans
Chariots trudged like blitzkrieg platoons,
Upon a gorgeous Friday noon.
Doves and gulls surfed Israeli skies
Like paper airplane flyer-bys.
A high rising sun shone to spotlight the display
Of three men dressed in cavemen cloths; their skin,
Marred and maimed, by Holy Roman blades.
Crowds drank his blood in jubilation,
Mocking the prior Sunday’s celebration.
But that was five days prior–
Hanging out and over.
Anticipating an end to pain from
A weather-beaten vagabond savior.
Four books lost in too many translations -
A single thing has changed:
We’ve found and exalted his liquid flesh.
Reassuring each Sunday remains a holy hangover.
Guaranteeing Friday will always be Good.
I was inspired particularly by the last poem to go back to writing like it's life or death. I haven't written anything since. But it was also the only poem I've ever written that involved no editing. And it's one of three poems--two posted and one not--that I deem decent work I've done. Shaking off the writer's rust is extremely difficult. But I don't really have much of an option. I could compromise. But that would be mediocre. And there's nothing worse than mediocrity. I would rather die old, decrepit, a poet and novelist never read than settle for something less.
So, the wilderness sabbatical will NOT consist of my usual drunk antics. I will focus all of my energy on recreating that spark that drove me create something I felt was magical, regardless of what anyone else thought. All of this may sound childish, but you know, when they tell you to grow up, they really mean stop growing.
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