Today feels like a Nonday.
I know it’s a Sunday
but then there are
Mondays that are Nondays
as well as
Tuesdays and others.
What day is it?
What time is it?
Does it really matter?
Should anyone really care?
It is always Today
which can be a Nonday
If I really want it to
And what if
I ran the days of the week
backwards
or sideways or
upside-down and
inside-out
What the hell
as long as it is Myday
And not Yourday
Or Anyone Else’s.
By the way,
What time is it?
So, is it that I think my life is too boring now
and maybe it was less so in years past?
Maybe so but, I think that I may be able
to get my writing to sort of run along with things
and eventually catch up
or is it the other way around, that my
activities may get more interesting if my life catches up
with my writing?
Now I’m confused.
Nothing new.
I watched the film
based on John Fante’s story
“Ask the Dust”.
It really brought
his writing to life and also
the anguish of his persona.
And also, how his writing
was an immediate recording of events,
laced with some fictional embellishment.
I can see his influence in Bukowski’s writing
very clearly.
When I read either’s work, I get the feeling
I’m just sitting there listening – rather
having a conversation with, them — there
voice on the page, mine in my head.
Their experiences sound so familiar
and their tone so much like that of a close friend.
I think this is going to be a great help
in getting the plug pulled for me s
o that my words can flow.
They are certainly dancing around
in my head all the time lately.
Maybe it will help my constipation too.
I will be seventy tomorrow
How I wish I had been writing
When I was in my thirties and living among bandits and thieves
Or in my twenties when carousing saloons and bars or in my teens
When playing twisted vandal or — but wait …
I did write when I was a teen
Something about the meaning of life
and the future of humankind
it was a disjointed poem about man
evolving into automata and living in split-level tombs
Having satisfied all their earthly wants and needs
Bored and packed away from the realities of living
I remember giving this poem to my cousin
who turned it in for an english assignment and
ended up having it published and winning an award for it.
But thinking back further I wish I had been writing
of my life in my youth, learning about female anatomy
in my backyard tent or under our porch
with the neighborhood girls.
My quest for speed and coolness
with hotrods and sports cars
and houses and yards. And,
more recently with my adventures
as an artist on the road.
and my happiness
at having survived
still free
from the daily grind
which seems to have
consumed most
whom I have known.
All
for what?
Why am I not writing anything? Well the simple answer is all I can think to write about is my not writing and who cares about that? Even other writers can’t stand that kind of self-serving drivel.
I want to be writing about things that are amusing or intriguing or at least engaging in one sort of meaningful way. I could ramble on about my daily activities or dreams or just random thoughts as many do I suppose. But that too becomes disengaging, so there. Stare at these blank pages awhile and see what YOU come up with.
If you’re not a writer yourself, maybe you are a reader. I know what that’s like. If this starts to either put you to sleep, bore you or otherwise not click, forget it. So, that’s why I’m not writing anything right now. Or, at least it is my current excuse.
I put my artwork, my painting on hold for awhile after not being able to make any sales of late. I thought that writing felt like a good alternative outlet and actually got into writing some poetry and short essays for awhile. Like so many things I’ve tried, the work of it became just that — work.
To me creative acts are most exciting in the energetic concept development stage. With painting, or writing that’s the mental/spiritual/physical acts of putting down the flow of words or colors/shapes. After that comes the rendering, mounting and framing or with words, the editing and composing. It’s that second part in writing that can for me be what kills the project. With painting, that second crafting stage is more physical than editing words. Yes of course removing a word is “physical” but it is done with only my fingers on a keyboard or on paper with a line or erasure — too simple yet so difficult. I love the physical rendering of visual arts like painting, sculpture and the like — but words, hmmm; maybe it’s just bad memories of school or something.
Then too, I’ve noticed lately a disdain for most poetry. How can that be since I found that writing poetry felt so right for me as a means of expression? Now I can’t stand to see so many overused similes, so many fruity ways to express something ordinary pouring into my mind from all kinds of sources mostly from academically ensconced professional hacks churning out a constant stream of carefully crafted whining fluff, gagh!
So who am I to judge these “Masters”? Well for one, I am a reader and one who has a low threshold for bullshit. I am a “writer”, whatever that connotes, open to criticism and anything else my readers might throw at me, like plaudits and money and looks askance and, who simply wants things to be simply and clearly stated with soul rather than some prescribed decorative phrasing. I love a good pun now and then but, like most, have been overloaded on that front by those enduringly clever journalists and there cute headlines.
Now I’m the one rambling and being irrelevantly boring. Maybe I’m just giving myself another session of self-learning out in the open — the one where I figure out something like how to appreciate the process of editing to simplify my writing and make sure it doesn’t fit the loathed categories I described here — how to cut the fluff and keep the rough bone, blood and gristle. Enough.
Stay tuned.