I'm reading a lot of trash. I'm supposed to be reading (and rewriting sections of) the Popol Vuh. Instead I'm reading articles in which I suddenly become strongly aware of how articles are written, their skeleton, its neatly packaged little sinewy fist.
They're good. I like knowing what a writer's doing. Reading so much poetry, most of it new (as in written yesterday or 20 years ago), I'm frustrated with their project, the heft and elaborate mystery in truly understanding the work. New poets obscure themselves with poetry. Dickinson, Shakespeare, Donne, Eliot, their work is like a radiating beacon, they roll out the red carpet for their readers. Their readers are equal to or better than themselves. You feel special and important as you slowly come to an understanding with their work. Poets nowadays know they are not Dickinson or Shakespeare, and innovate ways to be different, but instead just end up being new and often incomprehensible. You feel more like you have accidently found particles of light-dust, or red thread.
Maybe I'm actually just talking about my own work, or I read myself in the work of others, and criticize it. Or maybe I'm just resistant to new books by hot young poets the way I am now resistant to people, because I'm so easily disappointed, and I have to change that within myself.
I think poetry is about empathy. It's about being able to see from many windows, organs, weathers, ceilings, abysses.
this is, in part, an answer to a certain friend's question, what do you think about writing. ach. i don't know what i think. i don't think. i do.
I lost a letter I wrote to the dept head here, a private letter with my whole name on it. I think I dropped it with my videos in the return slot at the library.
it’s ten degrees and I need white curtains, red hair dye. I have less than one week left to prepare.
I sat in the BOTHER ME chair but nobody bothered me. Too bad. I want to be bothered.
Like when I hear a car door slam, I know it’s my neighbor, but even if I’m in my pajamas, I have a wild yearning for a surprise guest. You know I like the dangerous type. I do like a certain amount of fear and risk. When it has to do with my life at stake, and not social interactions.
Broc has a friend here, a recovering heroin and black porn addict. A recent one. B’s taking care of him. I feel I made a major faux pax when I told them where I found my goods for them. Later the boy opened up to me a little, for the first time. He’s so gentle and quiet and shy, on antidepressants, acts like her doesn’t care about anything, and maybe he really doesn’t, like I’ve been feeling, totally unmotivated in conversation and in life, which makes me a terrific guest. But I know he’s also masking a shy awkwardness, which is quite endearing. He is adorable. As a friend said, the Kurt Cobain angel-type. He’ll let me take photos of him.
god I love living alone – I don’t have to apologize or feel embarrassed for eating a can of whipped cream. Sometimes I eat the weirdest things. Like how better to eat crunchy peanut butter than with a spoon. And so what if I eat oatmeal or rice simply because I’m trying to get warm?
More tea and strawberries, which are surprisingly good right now.
I know, I know, I’m painfully deep today. just stay with me, please, ok? I’ll get better soon, I’ll try hard, I promise.
boys can be braggy. girls apologize more than boys. when boys have a lot of music, read and produce all the time, when they have cool stuff or a talent, they are bound to show it off. Whereas girls will hide it, pretend they aren’t that good, at, say, playing an instrument.
but hell, it’s not really braggy, anyway. it’s more like homage, what my (yes, my) boys are doing, and they want to share their loves. And I feel lucky to have them share with me.
hey you. you need to share more. not just here with me and on-line. you need to spread your wisdom, teach others. you know how much I look up to you, how much you’ve inspired me? I wish I knew you when I was 15. Nobody I knew then knows about this site
Posted at 02:24 am by jdoughs
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