how to survive a bear attack
I told myself that I'd be drawing right now.
But let's settle for this...
I won't let this keyboard scare me into silence.
What am I doing these days? As I get older and my wits get duller my life is dominated by work and the gym. I have reinvented myself into something different. Work and the gym. I scarcely make art or write much of anything. Sometimes I fool myself by packing a sketchbook and pencil case in my shoulder bag for work. crammed in there with gym clothes, book club selections, and allergy meds. I start to feel sick when I realize that I've drawn more on my iphone the last two weeks than on paper in the last year. Fuck you "draw something," and well, all smart phone apps in general.
I get this weak urge somewhere low inside me when I see the call for writing submissions for the Literary Review at my work. I briefly let myself imagine submitting something for review. Something old and forgotten, with an elusive clarity that I can no longer recall. I imagine that I dust it off and submit it to them with humble origins and without unnecessary attention and later they will have to ask incredulously if the person they see everyday could be the same person who could conjure up such a fantastic literary treat. I imagine that it makes them look at me differently from then on.
I remember my parents reaction to my first published piece. I had the publisher send them copies. I never heard a response from them.
I don't think my family can accept anything but the two dimensional idea of a son. who is a middle child. who excelled at wasting his efforts on trivial pursuits and made friends with the nerds and outcasts.
To this day they've never mentioned it.
From time to time I get flashes of the past. On the bus ride home today I witnessed my 21 year old self telling my 18 year old girlfriend that I'd never give up on her. She was a mess and that was precisely why I was drawn to her. I wanted to be a reliable person in her life because it was clear to me that she had exactly none. Especially the ones she cared for most. They would only hurt her in the end.
I was too young, she was too young. Perhaps because she had put so much work into seeking acceptance from others that she didn't know how to handle sudden unsolicited devotion, and perhaps my devotion was too hapless and eager because I had never known the joy of it myself. Was I just pantomiming what I thought it a should look like from afar? Regardless, my approach positioned me for minor affection and major disappointment and eventually the tumultuous life of young love wore me out.
I can't get that promise out of my head. I'll never give up on you. But I did. I gave up. It was too much to promise. When I hear that voice in my head saying those words it embarrasses me, makes me feel foolish and sick.
Dear 21 year old kid, you'll give up all the fucking time. Soon, you'll excel at it.
(a relic of a time long past)
i remember one time we held each other
when the static held the air
and the clouds drowned the moon
you started laughing
in short bursts of friendly fire
and lit the evening sky
above lanky telephone poles
and languid telephone wires
so i asked you what it was
and you said you had the urge
to call me something stupid like baby, or sugarcub
so we laughed and slung around petnames
like 5 year olds throw mudpies, dodging some,
catching others in the eye
making a mess with words and fading hours
before we finally decided such foolish names
could never be ours
and instead we fashioned kind words of hate
i called you bastard and you called me fuckface
But let's settle for this...
I won't let this keyboard scare me into silence.
What am I doing these days? As I get older and my wits get duller my life is dominated by work and the gym. I have reinvented myself into something different. Work and the gym. I scarcely make art or write much of anything. Sometimes I fool myself by packing a sketchbook and pencil case in my shoulder bag for work. crammed in there with gym clothes, book club selections, and allergy meds. I start to feel sick when I realize that I've drawn more on my iphone the last two weeks than on paper in the last year. Fuck you "draw something," and well, all smart phone apps in general.
I get this weak urge somewhere low inside me when I see the call for writing submissions for the Literary Review at my work. I briefly let myself imagine submitting something for review. Something old and forgotten, with an elusive clarity that I can no longer recall. I imagine that I dust it off and submit it to them with humble origins and without unnecessary attention and later they will have to ask incredulously if the person they see everyday could be the same person who could conjure up such a fantastic literary treat. I imagine that it makes them look at me differently from then on.
I remember my parents reaction to my first published piece. I had the publisher send them copies. I never heard a response from them.
I don't think my family can accept anything but the two dimensional idea of a son. who is a middle child. who excelled at wasting his efforts on trivial pursuits and made friends with the nerds and outcasts.
To this day they've never mentioned it.
From time to time I get flashes of the past. On the bus ride home today I witnessed my 21 year old self telling my 18 year old girlfriend that I'd never give up on her. She was a mess and that was precisely why I was drawn to her. I wanted to be a reliable person in her life because it was clear to me that she had exactly none. Especially the ones she cared for most. They would only hurt her in the end.
I was too young, she was too young. Perhaps because she had put so much work into seeking acceptance from others that she didn't know how to handle sudden unsolicited devotion, and perhaps my devotion was too hapless and eager because I had never known the joy of it myself. Was I just pantomiming what I thought it a should look like from afar? Regardless, my approach positioned me for minor affection and major disappointment and eventually the tumultuous life of young love wore me out.
I can't get that promise out of my head. I'll never give up on you. But I did. I gave up. It was too much to promise. When I hear that voice in my head saying those words it embarrasses me, makes me feel foolish and sick.
Dear 21 year old kid, you'll give up all the fucking time. Soon, you'll excel at it.
(a relic of a time long past)
i remember one time we held each other
when the static held the air
and the clouds drowned the moon
you started laughing
in short bursts of friendly fire
and lit the evening sky
above lanky telephone poles
and languid telephone wires
so i asked you what it was
and you said you had the urge
to call me something stupid like baby, or sugarcub
so we laughed and slung around petnames
like 5 year olds throw mudpies, dodging some,
catching others in the eye
making a mess with words and fading hours
before we finally decided such foolish names
could never be ours
and instead we fashioned kind words of hate
i called you bastard and you called me fuckface