(no subject)
I like writing. I really do!
What catharsis I've tried to bracket into this here ol' LJ probably strongly hints at the fact that letting myself open up and write has helped me through rougher periods perhaps more than I've let on in the past.
I think that's actually part of the reason I have been sidestepping writing in here for the past few years. I think I felt as though my inner voice had changed and grown up, yet my writing/confessional/venter voice hadn't. I wanted to disconnect from this. I didn't want to really write again until I didn't sound naive anymore.
I still don't think that I am extremely good at expressing myself; namely, I had become way too used to formatting it so as not to offend - a habit that was partially something I allowed myself to fall into and partially something that was pre-empted by others. But who gives a fuck about them anymore?
I'm still not there yet. I have the wisdom not to censor myself and some beloved people around me that I can completely let fly with, but that doesn't mean I'm always putting that wisdom into practice. Some habits are hard to break and, if truth be told, there will always be someone out there that you'll find you can't be blunt with (whether due to reasons of professionalism, or due to the fact that they will never listen to you anyway.) But I think that right around the time my use of the journal started tapering off was when I began to be able to articulate instincts and opinions and that was, of course a big step. Among other things, I've found out that I'm a lot more...judgmental? vindictive? easily irritated? something lying in between all that? than I thought I was. (Luckily, this side of me seems to come off as highly entertaining for the most part, or at least Troy thinks so.)
Even the above sounds to me too vague, too close in tone to all those "I'm stressed/confused/hurting a lot but I'm gonna try to lay it all out there and put a positive spin on it" entries I used to post, but I guess, to paraphrase in an extremely poor fashion, that Rome didn't revamp their Livejournal in a day (or maybe they did...the legion of blogging centurions?)
But in any case, I'm back for the time being.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was lucky enough to be a part of a writing group from approximately February to August of last year that formed after a questionably-organized poetry slam we all wound up at. Unfortunately, we didn't survive as a whole due to personality conflicts and one slightly batshit-crazy member, but it was a great experience and I'm still friends with the members whose friendships and critique I valued. I started writing again after a long period of not writing, and it was so easy for me to find that place where I could let go, open up, and put words together.
Here is a poem I wrote for one of the meetings. For that week, we had decided to write on the themes of expressionism and to a degree, personal crisis. I was looking at some Kandinsky paintings when I wrote it.
I've been so still that I think
they've finally forgotten I was here.
Having cracked the secret of invisibility, I am free to continue lying here
listening to the same song
seventeen times
galloping with it across the country
until it's playing on a loop by itself in my head
gathering momentum
creating suction
I am vibrating with silence
pouring volumes from it
the mattress, which sinks a bit in the middle
holding me in a helpful embrace
while gravity is kind enough to let me leave off worrying about floating away
so still
that the eye fools itself into thinking I must be moving
dancing in place.
the tiniest of earthquakes
etches the most graceful little frost pattern of fissure
splitting a hairline fracture
from the top of my skull
The shrill, reeking cry of a rooster
rips the sky open
and pulls the rug right out from under the hillside
the farmhouse jumps like it's trying to survive an falling elevator
and everything
the buildings
the haystack
the color of the grass
the outline of the ridge
glasses
saucers
full tea service
cradle
baby
and all
are flung airborne.
the closed eyelids on the side of the hill
stay shut but rolls like they're in a bad dream
as it careens upward with all the rest
the pressure shoots upward
sucking the blue from the sky
and leaving it white almost to the perimeter of the horizon.
little bits of debris richochet around the room
and burst apart in serene little orbs
in frozen suspension
the moment before
the cannonball slams
and the diver hits the water.
Look.
there...
...there it is.
The pulse is pounding so hard through my fingertips
that objects I balance on them
bounce.
If I touch the wall, it will shatter
If I press my palm to the bed
it will punch through the floor
all the way to the center of the earth
carrying me along for the ride
...and perhaps if I reach out into space
and make a fist
I can galvanize a handhold out of thin air.
What catharsis I've tried to bracket into this here ol' LJ probably strongly hints at the fact that letting myself open up and write has helped me through rougher periods perhaps more than I've let on in the past.
I think that's actually part of the reason I have been sidestepping writing in here for the past few years. I think I felt as though my inner voice had changed and grown up, yet my writing/confessional/venter voice hadn't. I wanted to disconnect from this. I didn't want to really write again until I didn't sound naive anymore.
I still don't think that I am extremely good at expressing myself; namely, I had become way too used to formatting it so as not to offend - a habit that was partially something I allowed myself to fall into and partially something that was pre-empted by others. But who gives a fuck about them anymore?
I'm still not there yet. I have the wisdom not to censor myself and some beloved people around me that I can completely let fly with, but that doesn't mean I'm always putting that wisdom into practice. Some habits are hard to break and, if truth be told, there will always be someone out there that you'll find you can't be blunt with (whether due to reasons of professionalism, or due to the fact that they will never listen to you anyway.) But I think that right around the time my use of the journal started tapering off was when I began to be able to articulate instincts and opinions and that was, of course a big step. Among other things, I've found out that I'm a lot more...judgmental? vindictive? easily irritated? something lying in between all that? than I thought I was. (Luckily, this side of me seems to come off as highly entertaining for the most part, or at least Troy thinks so.)
Even the above sounds to me too vague, too close in tone to all those "I'm stressed/confused/hurting a lot but I'm gonna try to lay it all out there and put a positive spin on it" entries I used to post, but I guess, to paraphrase in an extremely poor fashion, that Rome didn't revamp their Livejournal in a day (or maybe they did...the legion of blogging centurions?)
But in any case, I'm back for the time being.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was lucky enough to be a part of a writing group from approximately February to August of last year that formed after a questionably-organized poetry slam we all wound up at. Unfortunately, we didn't survive as a whole due to personality conflicts and one slightly batshit-crazy member, but it was a great experience and I'm still friends with the members whose friendships and critique I valued. I started writing again after a long period of not writing, and it was so easy for me to find that place where I could let go, open up, and put words together.
Here is a poem I wrote for one of the meetings. For that week, we had decided to write on the themes of expressionism and to a degree, personal crisis. I was looking at some Kandinsky paintings when I wrote it.
I've been so still that I think
they've finally forgotten I was here.
Having cracked the secret of invisibility, I am free to continue lying here
listening to the same song
seventeen times
galloping with it across the country
until it's playing on a loop by itself in my head
gathering momentum
creating suction
I am vibrating with silence
pouring volumes from it
the mattress, which sinks a bit in the middle
holding me in a helpful embrace
while gravity is kind enough to let me leave off worrying about floating away
so still
that the eye fools itself into thinking I must be moving
dancing in place.
the tiniest of earthquakes
etches the most graceful little frost pattern of fissure
splitting a hairline fracture
from the top of my skull
The shrill, reeking cry of a rooster
rips the sky open
and pulls the rug right out from under the hillside
the farmhouse jumps like it's trying to survive an falling elevator
and everything
the buildings
the haystack
the color of the grass
the outline of the ridge
glasses
saucers
full tea service
cradle
baby
and all
are flung airborne.
the closed eyelids on the side of the hill
stay shut but rolls like they're in a bad dream
as it careens upward with all the rest
the pressure shoots upward
sucking the blue from the sky
and leaving it white almost to the perimeter of the horizon.
little bits of debris richochet around the room
and burst apart in serene little orbs
in frozen suspension
the moment before
the cannonball slams
and the diver hits the water.
Look.
there...
...there it is.
The pulse is pounding so hard through my fingertips
that objects I balance on them
bounce.
If I touch the wall, it will shatter
If I press my palm to the bed
it will punch through the floor
all the way to the center of the earth
carrying me along for the ride
...and perhaps if I reach out into space
and make a fist
I can galvanize a handhold out of thin air.