Musings while waiting for poetry to occur.
Monday, March 29, 2010
7.00 p.m.
Café Deux Soleils, Commercial Drive
No one can know himself,
Detach from his self,
Yet he tries to become every day
What is finally clear from the outside,
What he is and what he was,
What he can and what he may.
Goethe
Tonight's the first of two Poetry Slam Semi-Final competitions. Almost two hours to go, and the place is already close to half full. Tonight promises to be fun.
I'm having some problems. When typing, I seem to constantly be misspelling simple words, more so than usual. Also, I seem to be stumbling over my words when I'm talking, or forgetting some words entirely. I don't like this. Is my body trying to tell me something? That I might not have much time left is a thought that is seldom far. Then again, maybe, I'm just getting old and this is all perfectly normal. Hell, maybe I've always been like this and am only admitting it to myself now.
The verbal outbursts seem to be getting more pronounced. I'm often talking to myself, same as always, but the temporary, violent flashes are becoming stronger, more vocal; when caught in that moment of anger, I sometimes forget where I am, even if only for a second or two. Anybody passing by me at those moments is going to think that I'm suffering from Tourette's Syndrome or something.
There are, of course, the usual feelings of loneliness. There is a distinct lack of physical intimacy in my life, so much so that, if someone gets too physically close, their slightest touch, no matter how innocent or accidental, feels almost electric.
What am I to do with myself?
What I should be doing is focussing more on my music. I need to discipline myself, write for at least an hour a day, if for no other reason than to get myself into the habit. I am working on a piece of music based on some text by superjill, although I have edited it for my purposes, an act which borders on sin, but one which I commit simply because I'm not that good of a writer. However, I have managed to write 26 bars of music for mezzo-soprano voice and piano; I don't know if they're good, but they feel solid, so for now, that will do.
Looking back on some of my writing, I feel as though my attempts at honesty wind up soundling like exercises in self-pity. Should I censor myself here, or write as honestly as I can at the risk of boring or frustrating those of you who take time out of your lives to read this? And for whom am I writing here, anyway? For what purpose? Truth? Understanding? Is there a goal, or is it simply a matter of writing for writing's sake?
7.00 p.m.
Café Deux Soleils, Commercial Drive
No one can know himself,
Detach from his self,
Yet he tries to become every day
What is finally clear from the outside,
What he is and what he was,
What he can and what he may.
Goethe
Tonight's the first of two Poetry Slam Semi-Final competitions. Almost two hours to go, and the place is already close to half full. Tonight promises to be fun.
I'm having some problems. When typing, I seem to constantly be misspelling simple words, more so than usual. Also, I seem to be stumbling over my words when I'm talking, or forgetting some words entirely. I don't like this. Is my body trying to tell me something? That I might not have much time left is a thought that is seldom far. Then again, maybe, I'm just getting old and this is all perfectly normal. Hell, maybe I've always been like this and am only admitting it to myself now.
The verbal outbursts seem to be getting more pronounced. I'm often talking to myself, same as always, but the temporary, violent flashes are becoming stronger, more vocal; when caught in that moment of anger, I sometimes forget where I am, even if only for a second or two. Anybody passing by me at those moments is going to think that I'm suffering from Tourette's Syndrome or something.
There are, of course, the usual feelings of loneliness. There is a distinct lack of physical intimacy in my life, so much so that, if someone gets too physically close, their slightest touch, no matter how innocent or accidental, feels almost electric.
What am I to do with myself?
What I should be doing is focussing more on my music. I need to discipline myself, write for at least an hour a day, if for no other reason than to get myself into the habit. I am working on a piece of music based on some text by superjill, although I have edited it for my purposes, an act which borders on sin, but one which I commit simply because I'm not that good of a writer. However, I have managed to write 26 bars of music for mezzo-soprano voice and piano; I don't know if they're good, but they feel solid, so for now, that will do.
Looking back on some of my writing, I feel as though my attempts at honesty wind up soundling like exercises in self-pity. Should I censor myself here, or write as honestly as I can at the risk of boring or frustrating those of you who take time out of your lives to read this? And for whom am I writing here, anyway? For what purpose? Truth? Understanding? Is there a goal, or is it simply a matter of writing for writing's sake?