I can’t always do it. I would never be openly showy or make any form of art before an audience. I don’t think I could. Challenges or prompts during writing group meetings and a few online are the most I can do in social settings where people know me. Other than that, my writing is a solitary effort, although I’m not exactly the poster boy of the garret-imprisoned scribe. I do write in coffee shops, libraries, parks, waiting or dining rooms, and even during my morning walks. But usually I write at this desk on this laptop.
Yet, I have times of emotional outburst writing. At least one reader seems to know or recognize exactly when that happens. I love the experience, and I find satisfaction when I read my scribble after the excitement has passed. If I can let go of something within me, an inner editor, judge, or critic, I like what happens. I feel so free. It’s about emotionally letting go of something.
I don’t listen to music when I read or write. I can only tolerate classical type without being distracted. I am not sure how it would work. I may try it sometime.
In order to give you an example for what I have in mind, I did some research on a well-known artist who I am familiar with. Well, I thought I was. Nothing about the art is independent of the artist—not the form, method, appeal, depth, or reputation.
Jonas Gerard of Ashville, TN, puts on an impressive show. The personal emotion he displays in making his art is the poster for explaining how I sometimes want to write, especially poetry. I have been to his studio, I have talked to him and several of his assistants, and I bought some of his work.
The youtube video below is an example of what I mean (he did a number of these). The vision of personal emotion (fake or real) is inspiring. But, artist or not, apparently old Jonas (he’s 78 or so) has had issues with untoward behavior (sexual harassment, maybe assault) in his past. I never put this guy on a pedestal or thought of him as anything more than a cool modern artist. Yet, I’m disappointed, angry, and confused. Because of what I learned, I considered not writing this piece or posting it.
But this is about me and I agree with what he says in the video about fear.
I want to write with emotional vigor displayed by Jonas Gerard when he paints. I want to let go, as he mentions. I love it when I can let go. It’s the temporary feeling and process I enjoy. The product, like all writing, will outlive the writer.
Look both ways. Every saint has a past, every sinner has a future.
Mind the gaps but dismiss excuses.
We are in denial
about
Life and Time
and thoughts
and memories
that die
when we die,
about reality and
feelings &
rockets and
space and
energy and
pompous
assholes
and Love.
Look again, both ways. One more time.
Denial is fantasy.
Gaps undeniably exist. Mind them.
it’s nine o’clock at night again. some are dressing to go out, not me—too tired.
too tired for anything but sleep, yet, here I sit
writing this poem about being too tired to do anything,
including write this fucking ridiculous poem
or prose or whatever the hell it is.
it’s absurd to fight off sleep like this, like a child fighting the inevitable,
but if I give in now, I will wake at two or three in the morning,
in the middle of the night, flummoxed.
I’ll sit here and drink water (after I pee); wishing I was sleeping.
maybe there’s an unused nightmare out there waiting for me,
to give inspiration or whatever nightmares do for us.
why? tell me why. I want to know why it is that I will try for a few more minutes
to pretend that I can…what? what can I do?
is there a world full of people out there who cannot
or will not do what I can do?
bless their hearts as the conceited among us write away
nodding at the overstuffed closet.
who needs competition from hidden talent?
right here and right now, exhausted with limited cognitive ability to crank
one out by jerking off my brain and spewing words to the page and saying,
fuck yah, man! a poet. I write this sputum. so what?
it turns out that how I feel and what I say, I am—
and you are too—holy shit, that is exactly how I feel!
am I pissed off about nothing? just fucked up and angry
for the very reason of no reason. we need help. are we crazy?
it sucks for me and I’m sorry it sucks for you, but it’s so fucking true.
it’s us. not me alone. not you alone. misery love, love, loves company.
that’s how it works to be human. nothing can save us except writing.
Look both ways. It’s the middle of the night and every form of refuge has its prison.
Mind the gaps and the sidewalk cracks for the want to—the reason of no reason.
An acrostic poem using the preferred US spelling to begin each line.
Enraptured by his vision of her beauty
Naughty and naked, how he wanted her
Taken with thoughts of ecstatic adventure
He stood bewitched, erect and stone hard
Riveted by rapturous delight, beguiled by her
Alluring charm; hypnotized and transfixed,
Lured into lust, he lost as her spell of
Love enslaved his soul and passion.
It’s not always possible to look both ways.
The gaps can be enticing.
I write at least one new poem each day. On most days I spend time working on draft poems, ideas, essays, or whatever the wind blows up meh kilt.
The halfway point of 2019 is July second. Therefore, I have written at lest one poem each day for half the year. Crossing this halfway point is like crossing the 13.1-mile mark for a marathon (done 15 times). It’s not the same, but a milestone, nonetheless.
I may start using some online prompts and writing challenges that look interesting. While I won’t run out of ideas, rubbing some change into my work may serve to stimulate me in the coming months.
Here are the titles of June’s poems, some of which I posted.
DateTitle
Manifestations
Awakenings
Library Lady
Sound
Glad I Could Help
Old Lions
Right Here, Right Now
Faults and Gaps
Henry’s Harpoon
Infernal Inferences
Feeding Fawn
Tolerance of People
Simple Question
No More Emily Days
Patent Flattened
Ain’t No Nevermind
What Does He Want?
Born Blood
To Be Chosen
Kitchen Visits
A Little Off
Last Call
I Like to Save
The Deluge
Mooned
Strike Two
Good News
It Snowed in Binghamton
Carefree (Sammi’s challenge prompt)
Jeremiah’s Mighty Fine Wine
As we prepare for our Independence Day celebrations this week,
perhaps it is appropriate to look both ways at 2019.
What is passed and what’s up next.
1776 was 243 years ago. Here’s to 243 more.
Mind the gaps.
See it, good and bad, it’s there
but not silent.
Connections have sounds,
vibrations from nature
give pleasantries, threats, and
danger its voice.
Acoustic waves of sound,
perceived in brains
through resonance with timbre.
We hear the soft breezes and roaring
winds perceived as warning,
we hear gentle rains in nature’s
song, and we know the destruction
of the hard driving, relentless torrent.
Quieter or louder, we feel
the sonic texture before our
brains make sense of thunder
and lightning,
before the train passes,
before volcano eruptions
or earth quakes. We hear.
We welcome the pleasantry
of music to our ears, yet we
know the damage of unprotected
loudness, of sonic torture. We
see with our ears, we determine
location, we find friend or foe.
The gift of hearing stands out
not to be assumed as always
there. If no sound is heard,
it did not exist for us.
Without hearing,
our connection with nature is lost.
And maybe with love.
Listen to the rhythm, hear
and feel the music deep inside
your body—then dance.
Dance.
Hear the sounds but see
them mindfully taking mental
shapes—the arts—the senses—
never to be assumed,
never ignored, to be both
cherished and used. Sense all
of life: the sights, sounds,
the tastes and the smells.
Feel the touches of it all
and welcome it until only
the sound of silence
remains.
And a lover’s voice,
listen, hear, love that sound.
Listen, listen, listen; hush.
Look both ways and listen to the sounds.
Hear the drop of rain fall into the distant gap.
On break, having coffee,
at a walk-to place from work.
Age came up.
Larry could always make me laugh,
a raised brow or expression,
his subtlety with humor,
the ability to play it straight
with a sincerity of stupidity.
We volunteered numbers,
all 40-somethings.
Larry looked serious.
“I just have one question.”
He’d set the bait. I knew better,
but one must play along.
I took the hook,
lest all fun be spoiled.
He looked straight at me,
and patiently awaited my response.
He was from the Buckeye State.
We met as underage roommates.
Both junior Air Force enlisted. Later
each married Texas gals
both opted for university:
Larry to UT, I to A&M.
As roommates, Larry thought me loud,
badly behaved, and unworthy of him.
He was classical. I was rock ‘n roll.
Incompatible, but no harm done.
Twenty years later
while wrapping up military careers
as Air Force officers,
he was a chopper pilot who served in Nam,
I was a B-52 crew dog.
When our paths again crossed,
we were distant friends, no more.
I asked, what’s your question, Colonel? He asked, “If you are younger than I am, why
do you look so much older?”
I’m older than Larry now. Rest in peace, my funny friend.
Our Literary Journey 