(no subject)
i wrote this january 3rd, 2006. it's still true today.
"i need to be writing again...i've been so bad about it. i wanted to write a poem for the piper but i couldn't think of anything to write about. well that isn't entirely true. i could think of a million things to write about, but it just doesn't come out right. i wish i could take abstract thoughts and throw them together in a way that breaks your heart. like cummings does. he doesn't follow any format and it isn't even proper english half the time but you know exactly what he means. i wish i could do that. like;
i know not what it is about you that opens and closes
only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses.
no one, not even the rain, has such small hands.
can't you see how beautiful the woman is that he's writing about? in three lines, i can completely envision this delicate and caring woman that he is completely enamored of. i can see the look in her eyes, what he means by her "voice" and the depth of her gaze. i can't do that. the only good poem i ever wrote was about being scared. how foolish that seems now. i want to put my confusion into words, but that's the whole point of confusion. you can't put it into words. i want to be able to explain to you, just so you can feel and share in the way i feel, and derive some joy from our cooperation. i wish i could explain how it feels to forget that life isn't a movie, that you have to participate. i feel that way a lot. i zone in on silly things and forget that i'm existing. how scary it is to exist! "how strange it is to be anything at all". to remember that i'm aging...that i thought eighteen would be impossible, and someday i'll feel the same shock about seventy. i want to write about sarah baker, simply because she still bothers me. not bothers like annoys...bothers like sometimes there is nothing i want more than to hug her again. i want to write about how it feels to stand on the westbrook jetty with a bagel and coffee and laugh with the seagulls. and how the clouds look like jellyfish while the sun is setting. you stare right at the sky and then all of a sudden you realize it's been setting all along - even while watching it, you missed it. but i can't put it into words in a way that feels sufficient, and thus i feel like i've failed. i'm exhausted with relating to other people's characters, using other people's words, singing other people's songs. i'm exhausted! i don't want to feel like Mrs. Dalloway or Trixie or Phedre or any of that. i guess this all came to fruition when i read perks of being a wallflower again. relating isn't enough anymore. feeling that cooperation and knowing that there's someone out there who understands....that isn't enough. i need to be the person who understands, and i need to be the person who writes the work that makes a person say, "yes, i know exactly what she means". i want to start the relationship, instead of joining it years down the road. i want to put it all into words for you, in a way that makes sense to everyone, so maybe someone who can't get the words out for themselves can use me as a crutch. like i abuse cummings, and woolf, and all of the others. i pillage their works for the morsels that describe what i need, and that just isn't enough any more. then again...it's never enough. not for me."
"i need to be writing again...i've been so bad about it. i wanted to write a poem for the piper but i couldn't think of anything to write about. well that isn't entirely true. i could think of a million things to write about, but it just doesn't come out right. i wish i could take abstract thoughts and throw them together in a way that breaks your heart. like cummings does. he doesn't follow any format and it isn't even proper english half the time but you know exactly what he means. i wish i could do that. like;
i know not what it is about you that opens and closes
only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses.
no one, not even the rain, has such small hands.
can't you see how beautiful the woman is that he's writing about? in three lines, i can completely envision this delicate and caring woman that he is completely enamored of. i can see the look in her eyes, what he means by her "voice" and the depth of her gaze. i can't do that. the only good poem i ever wrote was about being scared. how foolish that seems now. i want to put my confusion into words, but that's the whole point of confusion. you can't put it into words. i want to be able to explain to you, just so you can feel and share in the way i feel, and derive some joy from our cooperation. i wish i could explain how it feels to forget that life isn't a movie, that you have to participate. i feel that way a lot. i zone in on silly things and forget that i'm existing. how scary it is to exist! "how strange it is to be anything at all". to remember that i'm aging...that i thought eighteen would be impossible, and someday i'll feel the same shock about seventy. i want to write about sarah baker, simply because she still bothers me. not bothers like annoys...bothers like sometimes there is nothing i want more than to hug her again. i want to write about how it feels to stand on the westbrook jetty with a bagel and coffee and laugh with the seagulls. and how the clouds look like jellyfish while the sun is setting. you stare right at the sky and then all of a sudden you realize it's been setting all along - even while watching it, you missed it. but i can't put it into words in a way that feels sufficient, and thus i feel like i've failed. i'm exhausted with relating to other people's characters, using other people's words, singing other people's songs. i'm exhausted! i don't want to feel like Mrs. Dalloway or Trixie or Phedre or any of that. i guess this all came to fruition when i read perks of being a wallflower again. relating isn't enough anymore. feeling that cooperation and knowing that there's someone out there who understands....that isn't enough. i need to be the person who understands, and i need to be the person who writes the work that makes a person say, "yes, i know exactly what she means". i want to start the relationship, instead of joining it years down the road. i want to put it all into words for you, in a way that makes sense to everyone, so maybe someone who can't get the words out for themselves can use me as a crutch. like i abuse cummings, and woolf, and all of the others. i pillage their works for the morsels that describe what i need, and that just isn't enough any more. then again...it's never enough. not for me."