step into the light
So, I think I should just put a book together. A book of love poems. I think I should ink my printer and let a few fly out, mark them up, send them back through, and mark them up again. First: go fishing. Journal, archives, lists and lists. Don't worry about how everything is going to fit, just find what you like and lift it out.
I think it could be a puzzle--you're good at those. Still are, I presume.
Love poems. Aren't all poems, love poems? Aren't all poems a form of obsession, beating down of doors? I think you should pool a manuscript and start sending it out. I think you should stop being so goddamn wishy washy and throw all the poems to the dogs.
I also think you should read more than you do. GIRL, get it together. You used to love this and when you stopped it's because the work wasn't interesting. You've been doing interesting stuff for a long time now and because it didn't fit with anything else, you felt that it was wrong or no good when all along folks have been telling you it's good because it's different. D.A. Powell said it, Mary Szybist said it, Marianne fucking Boruch said it, Heather McHugh, and Connie Hales and Tim Skeen. They all said that they saw something in what you were doing. That there was weirdness, spark, and mystery. You didn't get this far for being no good. Doug sees it. They all do. And you've been fucking around and giving up because you don't feel like you're the next goddamn Elizabeth Bishop. Well fuck you, bitch.
You've been given this and you're wasting it.
Whew, I do feel better today than I have the past few days--worrying that mono had returned (maybe it has?). I feel best when I force myself to eat a lot and to get out of bed sometimes and take vitamins.
Dad is going to tell me some dismal news, I know it. Sometimes I hopes he finds someone else to be with. To be happy with. Clearly his marriage has been unhappy for a very long time. It seems his marriages have a shelf life of about ten years. If he could stop trying to control everything and her, too, things would be so wildly different.
Also: it's funny what sickness and lack of serotonin does to a person's mind. Fuck. I go to some fucking dark places when left to my own devices. It's clear that I need change and have been talking about it for a long, long time. Part of this is to start hanging out with different people. Reconnect with folks who share my passions. Folks who are honest, genuine, and caring people. I'm tired of feeling alone. This is the year I want to open myself up to the possibility of being in a romantic relationship. I mean--that when something is going well, not to analyze it until it falls apart.
Writing has grown a bit stiff, you see, I used to actually like the sounds of words as they rolled off my fingers but where has the joy for diatribe gone? The stamp of cylinder and nightclubs in nylons licking fingers from the cherry plucked from the cool gut of a whiskey sour. At least it was only one cherry from this point of view.
Any cherries are a promise.
House parties were almost always more fun than going to bars. The possibilities were more adventurous because we couldn't get kicked out for losing our clothes in rooms or for putting cups on a table and throwing ping pong balls into them. There were no closing times or ID checks at the door, no tipping and no high prices. Haven for possibility. I rarely wondered how I was perceived at these gatherings, only focusing on how many folks I could talk to before the night was over--taking care to make rounds because I wanted to see them all and talk to them all and hear their jokes and laughs and, at times, photograph them so I could share their faces back to them. When we were in clearer visions, in daylight. We had something good with one another.
As time moves forward and more of us move online, I've found that folks care so much about their appearance and dialogue and posture and gestures that they can barely have any fun at all thinking that hard about their nights in black or burgundy or white or silver. Jesus, just stand there and listen. Aaron is right, I can turn almost anything into an adventure. I was that person, am that person, and fuck everyone who is always pissing on my parades.
I never thought Los Angeles would be the place to jade me most, but I think it's become a jading place because so many of its inhabitants aren't who they want to be seen as. How exhausting most of the lives and when a person spends all of their time in the company of attractive gay men, that pressure is even redder.
Here's to the impending new year. Here's to a deep breath and a step into the light.
I think it could be a puzzle--you're good at those. Still are, I presume.
Love poems. Aren't all poems, love poems? Aren't all poems a form of obsession, beating down of doors? I think you should pool a manuscript and start sending it out. I think you should stop being so goddamn wishy washy and throw all the poems to the dogs.
I also think you should read more than you do. GIRL, get it together. You used to love this and when you stopped it's because the work wasn't interesting. You've been doing interesting stuff for a long time now and because it didn't fit with anything else, you felt that it was wrong or no good when all along folks have been telling you it's good because it's different. D.A. Powell said it, Mary Szybist said it, Marianne fucking Boruch said it, Heather McHugh, and Connie Hales and Tim Skeen. They all said that they saw something in what you were doing. That there was weirdness, spark, and mystery. You didn't get this far for being no good. Doug sees it. They all do. And you've been fucking around and giving up because you don't feel like you're the next goddamn Elizabeth Bishop. Well fuck you, bitch.
You've been given this and you're wasting it.
Whew, I do feel better today than I have the past few days--worrying that mono had returned (maybe it has?). I feel best when I force myself to eat a lot and to get out of bed sometimes and take vitamins.
Dad is going to tell me some dismal news, I know it. Sometimes I hopes he finds someone else to be with. To be happy with. Clearly his marriage has been unhappy for a very long time. It seems his marriages have a shelf life of about ten years. If he could stop trying to control everything and her, too, things would be so wildly different.
Also: it's funny what sickness and lack of serotonin does to a person's mind. Fuck. I go to some fucking dark places when left to my own devices. It's clear that I need change and have been talking about it for a long, long time. Part of this is to start hanging out with different people. Reconnect with folks who share my passions. Folks who are honest, genuine, and caring people. I'm tired of feeling alone. This is the year I want to open myself up to the possibility of being in a romantic relationship. I mean--that when something is going well, not to analyze it until it falls apart.
Writing has grown a bit stiff, you see, I used to actually like the sounds of words as they rolled off my fingers but where has the joy for diatribe gone? The stamp of cylinder and nightclubs in nylons licking fingers from the cherry plucked from the cool gut of a whiskey sour. At least it was only one cherry from this point of view.
Any cherries are a promise.
House parties were almost always more fun than going to bars. The possibilities were more adventurous because we couldn't get kicked out for losing our clothes in rooms or for putting cups on a table and throwing ping pong balls into them. There were no closing times or ID checks at the door, no tipping and no high prices. Haven for possibility. I rarely wondered how I was perceived at these gatherings, only focusing on how many folks I could talk to before the night was over--taking care to make rounds because I wanted to see them all and talk to them all and hear their jokes and laughs and, at times, photograph them so I could share their faces back to them. When we were in clearer visions, in daylight. We had something good with one another.
As time moves forward and more of us move online, I've found that folks care so much about their appearance and dialogue and posture and gestures that they can barely have any fun at all thinking that hard about their nights in black or burgundy or white or silver. Jesus, just stand there and listen. Aaron is right, I can turn almost anything into an adventure. I was that person, am that person, and fuck everyone who is always pissing on my parades.
I never thought Los Angeles would be the place to jade me most, but I think it's become a jading place because so many of its inhabitants aren't who they want to be seen as. How exhausting most of the lives and when a person spends all of their time in the company of attractive gay men, that pressure is even redder.
Here's to the impending new year. Here's to a deep breath and a step into the light.