Relax.
You need to take five deep breaths. In through the nose and out through the mouth. When you are done I will need you to sit down on that couch over there. You can cross your legs if you want to, or you can tuck your knees under your body- I don’t care, I just need you to sit, and relax.
Are you ready?
Okay, five deep breaths, in through the nose
and out through the mouth.
in through the nose,
and out through the mouth,
in through the nose,
and out through the mouth,
in through the nose,
and out through the mouth,
in through the nose,
and out through the mouth.
Good, feel better now? Lets talk.
You are feeling anxious because there is so much going on right now. You wake up in bad moods and don’t know why- really you have nothing to be that upset about. You are twenty something, in school, in love, and have a roof over your head and can afford to eat out 3.5 times a week. You drag yourself out of bed and make coffee, you said that a cup of coffee can make you feel better. So you drink your cup of coffee and then what?
Then you go to school, or work or your friends house to smoke a joint, have a beer? Right?
Right. But this is just the external anxiety. There are layers and layers to this kind of phobia. Isn’t it interesting how ‘stress’ is a phenomenon only a bit older than we are? Stress and anxiety were only upper class afflictions. Nervous tendencies left to the rich unsexed wives of the Victorian era. But now you need to worry about charging your phone, transferring that paper to the jump drive, making sure the e-mail you sent to your boss/mom/teacher/boyfriend went through. You are not sure if you are going to have enough money to pay rent and go to the beach for the weekend. You are stressed because yesterday you got a parking ticket and lost your bus pass. You got to drunk and spent more than you wanted to at the bar.
That’s enough to stress anyone out as is.
But what else?
You should feel lucky that you can even worry about these things. Most people have to worry about how they are going to put dinner on the table for their 6 kids, where they are going to sleep tonight, if the bus they board is going to blow up, or if they will make it through the night while deep inside them a cancer grows.
No, I know you are not ungrateful for what you have, and I know you donate money and help out where ever you can… please calm down.
Lets take a few more breaths okay? In through the nose,
and out through the mouth,
in through the nose,
and out through the mouth,
in through the nose,
and out through the mouth.
Excellent. Close your eyes if you need to.
It seems to me that this is all the normal problems every college student has. Yours is different, I know. You are gay/black/bi-polar/poor. I know. And for that I am very sorry, but to be honest you are the only one who seems to think you are so different. You are anxious about the same things mostly and the reality is that you just have too much on your plate. Five classes which take you an hour to commute to, you have a full time job and a live in other. Your mother is slowly declining into insanity and your father is battling cancer/MS/PTSD/alcoholism. You live in the shadow of your perfect siblings and you are the art school outcast. You have the responsibility of a job you hate, of playing mother and father at the same time and no, I’m not sure why you wanted to adopt that puppy too…
Excuse me?
…
The apocalypse? My.
Well, yes… The world is grossly over populated, and disease is more rampant than ever. In fact, between our food and all its high-fructose corn syrup, added sodium, msg, we are killing ourselves with obesity. The amount of people on this earth make it hard for us to not infect each other. There is war waging everywhere. The big earthquake seems to be laying dormant, un-touched and ready to rise at any minute, creeping its shingled splintered skin to the top and belching out in a single roaring thrust only to open it’s mouth and consume us whole. This morning there was a small one.
It seems that corruption and evil has overthrown all good and now there is no such thing as right and wrong, only political and anarchy, but anarchy does no good because it is a hopeless cause so now we must all drudge along single line, cut nails, hair parted at 2 o’clock thank you very much, and do your blacks match? because if they don’t…
so we are coasting on this capitol hungry wave until what?
Right. Until it all crumbles, and at this acceleration it is making the bogus 2012 predictions seem a lot more true. We are slowly tuning our ears to pick up on more of the weird. Last night for example I was sleeping next to my girlfriend, her twin sister and best friend in the next room. While we were making love I had a waking hallucination of flowers growing up up up from pots and blooming then shriveling back, the room was stark white and the flowers were made of stop animation paper. She confessed to me that while we were making love she had a bizarre “dreamy thing although I was awake” in which we vacationed in the Caribbean and in our cabana a woman with her face painted purple and green hair appeared. This morning her twin began to tell us of “the weirdest thing ever that happened last night as I was going to bed…” She hallucinated red demon faces screaming and swirling above her, while next to her, her friend closed her eyes and saw a woman sitting in a chair in the hallway. All of this at the same time, unconnected to anything, no one speaking to anyone else and far far away above the mid-Atlantic a bright green meteor streaked across the sky lighting it up and departing with a sonic boom. * Heads from Virginia, DC, and Maryland turned upwards and asked “why?” The meteorologists smiled in their stiff suits, scratching their head and said that this streak was “nothing meteorological that we can see.” And no it wasn’t meteorological because above his head and high above ours and above me in my sleeping bed, above DC and Virginia, above that green streaking flame, planets switch shifts like ticking clock grind gears. The moon moved seamlessly and silently into Gemini’s house, ready to assume his power.
North Korea is going to launch a missile soon. They say it is only practice. The situation in the middle east is at it’s worst, and the mall in Haifa that we could see from our house was almost blown up yesterday- they found a car packed with enough explosives to destroy 5 bus loads of Israeli’s. Haiti is falling apart, communism is not an idea of yesterday. AIDS has morphed into super AIDS and the mob has destroyed Italy. Racism is still a big deal in South Africa but anywhere if you have a large bill the people who can do anything will turn their back and say nothing. We have no control. We have no faith in future.
What I need you to do is sit down and cross your legs. Those dreams you keep having about the water rising is only in sleep, so please take a seat on my couch and we are going to do a little relaxation exercise. I want you to take five deep breaths, in through your nose,
and out through your mouth.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
writers questionnaire
Response to writers questionnaire:
1. What do you consider good poetry, fiction, or CNF? Who then by your definition, is a poet or a fiction/CNF writer?
Good poetry, fiction, ect. would be a piece that elicits an emotional subconscious response in which a reader becomes aware of something they previously didn’t. Ideally the ultimate global effect of a good piece of writing will create empathy within a group. Historically people like Mary Shelly, Shakespeare, JD Salinger, Hemmingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, and Carver would be among the less contemporary. Mary Gaiteskill, Jonathan Lethem, Jonathan Saffran Foyer, Michelle Tea, among the more contemporary are some examples in my opinion, of people who create “good” works.
2. Write about something you learned recently, away from school, that you are proud of.
I learned that every action has a reaction. That something as simple as not calling someone back, or dropping a cigarette into a trashcan can cause a big ordeal. I picture it as a zoom outwards into space, and all these tiny specks moving… it’s hard to put into words, but something is always happening, and everything you do in consequential.
3. What do you hope to accomplish with a single piece of written work?
I hope to create empathy. I hope to show people that things are not always as they seem and there is always another way to look at something. Even if I only affect one person, I will feel like I have accomplished something.
4. What is modern?
Modern is such a crazy thing to try and define in this day in age. I feel like when someone says modern they turn into a TV screen flashing ads for Mac-books and skinny jeans or something, but for me modern is just a state of awareness. I guess being aware that change is constantly happening, that trends are coming and going faster than anyone can catch a hold of, and the universal state of affairs is all flux as well. So modern in terms of Literature, would be the ability to express these changes, view them, dissect and mostly be aware of them. Modern is knowing that all is life, and all is flux, all in now.
5. What is original?
Original… hah, here is a subject I could rant on and on about. Original is hard to come by, I don’t think anything is original anymore, instead we have today (2009) our own form of “modern” originality, which is individual perception, and distortion. Now, to be original, you need to view your contemporaries and your heroes and mimic them, only to distort them. Use their formulas to obtain different outcomes.
That or you totally have to lose your marbles and just go with it.
6. What is the present?
The present is this really crazy place between past and future where everything happens so fast that it is almost automatically past tense. Present is the number you are reading on the clock, its forward momentum in giant spirals and it’s a freeze frame of you blinkingeatingbreathing while everyone is paused mid action. The present probably exists in the same realm as space storms, black holes, Genesis P. Orridge, giant squids and poltergeists….
7. Where do you imagine yourself, if you imagine yourself as a poet or fiction/CNF writer, in ten years?
I am a huge pessimist. I am dead convinced that humanity will be eradicated in the very nigh future. That said, assuming we don’t all die in a massive earthquake/flood/nuclear bomb/TB outbreak/mass suicide cult, then I hope to be twice published (and embarrassed by my first novel) living with a cat, a typewriter, my brilliant writer/artist partner, and a really excellent French press in Shangri La, New Orleans, or maybe some backwoods southern county channeling Henry Miller and day dreaming of some fantastical love affair while writing about post apocalyptic pathology.
8. Do you believe the poet, or the writer is the true historian?
I believe that 100% the writer is the true historian. Percy Shelley in his essay A defense of poetry wrote “Non Merita nome di creatore, sennon iddio ed it poeta” (None deserves the name of creator except god and the poet)” I wrote an essay recently called “Empathy Through Synthesis in the Romantic Ideal: A Defense of Literature in Society.” in which I explain why I believe so much in the power of art and written word. I am going to excerpt a small section where I talk about a conscious awakening that occurs through literature which I believe will answer this question.
“A writer must contend a million times over with the insulting question of Why? Why do what we do? Why create texts, explain our theories, and share our memories? Many will say that literary pursuits are vain and pointless. That there is no real purpose for someone to talk through text and expect the masses to care, and this is a very good point. But people sometimes are blind. They only see things as they appear: the chair is composed of four legs, and two square segments. A non-writer thinks: the upholstery is red and the walls are large and white. But a writer, artist, or poet will sit in the same room and say No. These walls are not just white, but they are shields against the unknown, they are containers and vessels. They are ears when no human ears are available. The poet will lend his eyes to an ignorant man and show him how the world around him is not just shapes and colors, rather concepts and ideas, movement and feeling. The writer lends his eyes as he does his words. When there are no words to explain intangible feelings or experiences, a writer loans his own to his society.
A bomb drops in Hiroshima and thousands perish slowly, painfully. A mass genocide occurs as nations turn their back to their suffering brothers; a war wrecks half the globe. These leave people scared, scarred, and void of any voice. Theodore Adorno once said that "…to write a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric.”( Adorno, Theodore. "An Essay on Cultural Criticism and Society.") What Adorno means is that after a travesty like the holocaust, lyrical poetry has no place in society. I beg to differ, because the writer is able to pull from himself the ability to put himself back into these horrific places, and to recall with acute detail the suffering around him. It is not only for record, but for history, and therapy; the horrors of history beg us to create new paradigms. And while certain conventions of expression may have been stifled by such horrific occasions, a new voice must arise to help create apathy. Percy Shelley writes "Poets are the un-acknowledged legislators of the world”(Shelly, Percy. "A Defense of Poetry.") Born from our experiences is not a verbatim technical history, but the metaphoric value that comes from this.
9. How do you think your written work stands in relation to your other coursework, the rest of your life, the rest of the visible/invisible world?
I try to create fiction that is as far away from me as possible. I am a fantasist, I don’t sleep much, so that extra 8 hours a day really helps with the creative flow. I definitely pull from my own life, whether that is a really fantastic argument with a lover, or some strange creep on the bus. I like to create real characters who can, and probably do exist in real life. Only I like to torture and distort them, give them extreme flaws and magnify them, which seems to be a pretty real trend in actual life (the exploitation of ones flaws) so although my characters are distant from myself, everything around me serves as inspiration and everything in my life is relevant to one another through my writing.
10. What, to your way of thinking, is alien to good work?
Well, I think appreciation on a deserved level is pretty alien to good literature. I also thing that you cannot have normalcy and formulas and expectations in good writing, but I guess I am still trying to figure out what exactly “good writing” is. Oh! and Queer writers writing non queer fiction is pretty alien (for now…)
11. What was the last non-fiction book you bought? fiction? poetry?
The last book on non-fiction prose that I bought was “Me talk Pretty Some Day” by David Sedaris, and I couldn’t even bear through the first chapter… I’m sorry, I think his writing is unbearably trite. The last book of fiction I bought was tonight actually and it is “Mister B. Gone” by Clive Barker… I’ll tell you what I think! The last book of poetry was Amy Silbergeld’s chapbook.
12. Whose was the first written work you came upon that made you want to write?
I have two answers to this question. a. I have always known that I wanted to write, I loved reading and writing just seemed natural. b. the first time I ever felt the urge to really create a world of my own and share it with people was when I was 13 and I was OBSESSED with this series of fantastical teen lit called “Dangerous Angels” By Francesca Lia Block. She had created this magical realm that moved me in such a profound way that I immediately immersed myself in all things F.L.Block. I felt her characters and still to this day have a deep love. It was in the middle of reading her book for the second time that I wrote a full coherent short story.
13. Do you judge poetry, fiction, CNF by any ethical standard? Do you think aesthetics and ethics are mutually dependent or independent terms?
Yes. I judge everything by a cocktail of ethics, aesthetics, and bias (shaken, not stirred please…) I cannot read a book that I know contains blatant discrimination or hatred, but from the authors mouth. If the author him/herself is projecting their skewed beliefs onto the characters and there does not seem like there is anything discerning from the author and the character then I believe that is a breach of ethical standards. I also wont read anything I know that deals with extreme opposition to things that I hold dear to me (that is for my sanity’s sake) and I also cant bear to get through a book that completely disregards the beauty of words. Henry Miller, Nabokov, Michelle Tea, Anais Nin, Mary Shelly, Oscar Wilde, they were all provocative writers who wrote about extremely controversial things that were unethical to some, but they kept the audience in mind and they also paid their dues to the beauty of words. They played with their own form and grammar and yet still were able to make the cocktail just right.
14. What writers from past centuries would you choose to have a nice, long dinner conversation with?
Oh Man! okay here are a few (in no particular order) :
Anais Nin & Henry miller
Lord Byron
Oscar Wilde
F. S. and Zelda Fitzgerald
Vladimir Nabokov
Anthony Burgees
Alan Ginsburg
Francesca L.Block
15. Name a few writers from differnet countries or cultural origin with whom you are familiar.
G.G. Marquez
Jiri Grusa
Cees Noteboom
Baudelaire
16. Why write?
I am going to (obnoxiously) excerpt from my essay again to help answer this.
“… if one were to extract themselves from the public by ignoring literature, (or more globally) we were a society apathetic to creative voices, we would become a society filled with the wicked and grow increasingly amoral. Percy Shelley says in “A Defense of Poetry” that:
“Poetry strengthened the faculty in which is the organ of the moral nature of man, in the same manner as exercise strengthens a limb.” (2, 961)
Shelley explains in “A Defense of Poetry” how the importance of the writer is not just to lend his voice, but to create. To drill into his imagination and bare witness to everything he sees, regardless of how vicious, splendid, or unbelievable the event. So that through him the reader can experience truth as well. Shelley writes “A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth….the [poem] is the creation of actions according to the unchangeable forms of human nature, as existing in the mind of the creator which itself the image of all other material.” He goes on to write “the story of particular facts is as a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”
Without the imaginative pictures painted by poets, there would just be words. Thick, dense, texts filled with philosophies and theories serving no purpose but to exist. It is through the imagination that the poet is able to relate to his audience, bend on one knee and let the public sip his knowledge, awakening them to the possibilities of foreign ideas. We can easily speak of the fallacies of man, love, death, betrayal in simple scientific and technical terms, but it becomes poetry and relatable when you can speak of love as a nightingale singing in night, death as a dense silent fog, betrayal as a succubus living in the depths of the sea. When an intangible feeling becomes an image, a public can imagine and relate. Through this relationship forms a mutual understanding felt globally. As every poet writes, and every person reads, a bond is created linking man to each other and subconsciously, we raise our glass in a toast to the unity of species.
“Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration, the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present, the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moves not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” – Percy Shelley”
So, then being able to create in this manner… I am obligated to share if for nothing else, than to awaken.
1. What do you consider good poetry, fiction, or CNF? Who then by your definition, is a poet or a fiction/CNF writer?
Good poetry, fiction, ect. would be a piece that elicits an emotional subconscious response in which a reader becomes aware of something they previously didn’t. Ideally the ultimate global effect of a good piece of writing will create empathy within a group. Historically people like Mary Shelly, Shakespeare, JD Salinger, Hemmingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, and Carver would be among the less contemporary. Mary Gaiteskill, Jonathan Lethem, Jonathan Saffran Foyer, Michelle Tea, among the more contemporary are some examples in my opinion, of people who create “good” works.
2. Write about something you learned recently, away from school, that you are proud of.
I learned that every action has a reaction. That something as simple as not calling someone back, or dropping a cigarette into a trashcan can cause a big ordeal. I picture it as a zoom outwards into space, and all these tiny specks moving… it’s hard to put into words, but something is always happening, and everything you do in consequential.
3. What do you hope to accomplish with a single piece of written work?
I hope to create empathy. I hope to show people that things are not always as they seem and there is always another way to look at something. Even if I only affect one person, I will feel like I have accomplished something.
4. What is modern?
Modern is such a crazy thing to try and define in this day in age. I feel like when someone says modern they turn into a TV screen flashing ads for Mac-books and skinny jeans or something, but for me modern is just a state of awareness. I guess being aware that change is constantly happening, that trends are coming and going faster than anyone can catch a hold of, and the universal state of affairs is all flux as well. So modern in terms of Literature, would be the ability to express these changes, view them, dissect and mostly be aware of them. Modern is knowing that all is life, and all is flux, all in now.
5. What is original?
Original… hah, here is a subject I could rant on and on about. Original is hard to come by, I don’t think anything is original anymore, instead we have today (2009) our own form of “modern” originality, which is individual perception, and distortion. Now, to be original, you need to view your contemporaries and your heroes and mimic them, only to distort them. Use their formulas to obtain different outcomes.
That or you totally have to lose your marbles and just go with it.
6. What is the present?
The present is this really crazy place between past and future where everything happens so fast that it is almost automatically past tense. Present is the number you are reading on the clock, its forward momentum in giant spirals and it’s a freeze frame of you blinkingeatingbreathing while everyone is paused mid action. The present probably exists in the same realm as space storms, black holes, Genesis P. Orridge, giant squids and poltergeists….
7. Where do you imagine yourself, if you imagine yourself as a poet or fiction/CNF writer, in ten years?
I am a huge pessimist. I am dead convinced that humanity will be eradicated in the very nigh future. That said, assuming we don’t all die in a massive earthquake/flood/nuclear bomb/TB outbreak/mass suicide cult, then I hope to be twice published (and embarrassed by my first novel) living with a cat, a typewriter, my brilliant writer/artist partner, and a really excellent French press in Shangri La, New Orleans, or maybe some backwoods southern county channeling Henry Miller and day dreaming of some fantastical love affair while writing about post apocalyptic pathology.
8. Do you believe the poet, or the writer is the true historian?
I believe that 100% the writer is the true historian. Percy Shelley in his essay A defense of poetry wrote “Non Merita nome di creatore, sennon iddio ed it poeta” (None deserves the name of creator except god and the poet)” I wrote an essay recently called “Empathy Through Synthesis in the Romantic Ideal: A Defense of Literature in Society.” in which I explain why I believe so much in the power of art and written word. I am going to excerpt a small section where I talk about a conscious awakening that occurs through literature which I believe will answer this question.
“A writer must contend a million times over with the insulting question of Why? Why do what we do? Why create texts, explain our theories, and share our memories? Many will say that literary pursuits are vain and pointless. That there is no real purpose for someone to talk through text and expect the masses to care, and this is a very good point. But people sometimes are blind. They only see things as they appear: the chair is composed of four legs, and two square segments. A non-writer thinks: the upholstery is red and the walls are large and white. But a writer, artist, or poet will sit in the same room and say No. These walls are not just white, but they are shields against the unknown, they are containers and vessels. They are ears when no human ears are available. The poet will lend his eyes to an ignorant man and show him how the world around him is not just shapes and colors, rather concepts and ideas, movement and feeling. The writer lends his eyes as he does his words. When there are no words to explain intangible feelings or experiences, a writer loans his own to his society.
A bomb drops in Hiroshima and thousands perish slowly, painfully. A mass genocide occurs as nations turn their back to their suffering brothers; a war wrecks half the globe. These leave people scared, scarred, and void of any voice. Theodore Adorno once said that "…to write a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric.”( Adorno, Theodore. "An Essay on Cultural Criticism and Society.") What Adorno means is that after a travesty like the holocaust, lyrical poetry has no place in society. I beg to differ, because the writer is able to pull from himself the ability to put himself back into these horrific places, and to recall with acute detail the suffering around him. It is not only for record, but for history, and therapy; the horrors of history beg us to create new paradigms. And while certain conventions of expression may have been stifled by such horrific occasions, a new voice must arise to help create apathy. Percy Shelley writes "Poets are the un-acknowledged legislators of the world”(Shelly, Percy. "A Defense of Poetry.") Born from our experiences is not a verbatim technical history, but the metaphoric value that comes from this.
9. How do you think your written work stands in relation to your other coursework, the rest of your life, the rest of the visible/invisible world?
I try to create fiction that is as far away from me as possible. I am a fantasist, I don’t sleep much, so that extra 8 hours a day really helps with the creative flow. I definitely pull from my own life, whether that is a really fantastic argument with a lover, or some strange creep on the bus. I like to create real characters who can, and probably do exist in real life. Only I like to torture and distort them, give them extreme flaws and magnify them, which seems to be a pretty real trend in actual life (the exploitation of ones flaws) so although my characters are distant from myself, everything around me serves as inspiration and everything in my life is relevant to one another through my writing.
10. What, to your way of thinking, is alien to good work?
Well, I think appreciation on a deserved level is pretty alien to good literature. I also thing that you cannot have normalcy and formulas and expectations in good writing, but I guess I am still trying to figure out what exactly “good writing” is. Oh! and Queer writers writing non queer fiction is pretty alien (for now…)
11. What was the last non-fiction book you bought? fiction? poetry?
The last book on non-fiction prose that I bought was “Me talk Pretty Some Day” by David Sedaris, and I couldn’t even bear through the first chapter… I’m sorry, I think his writing is unbearably trite. The last book of fiction I bought was tonight actually and it is “Mister B. Gone” by Clive Barker… I’ll tell you what I think! The last book of poetry was Amy Silbergeld’s chapbook.
12. Whose was the first written work you came upon that made you want to write?
I have two answers to this question. a. I have always known that I wanted to write, I loved reading and writing just seemed natural. b. the first time I ever felt the urge to really create a world of my own and share it with people was when I was 13 and I was OBSESSED with this series of fantastical teen lit called “Dangerous Angels” By Francesca Lia Block. She had created this magical realm that moved me in such a profound way that I immediately immersed myself in all things F.L.Block. I felt her characters and still to this day have a deep love. It was in the middle of reading her book for the second time that I wrote a full coherent short story.
13. Do you judge poetry, fiction, CNF by any ethical standard? Do you think aesthetics and ethics are mutually dependent or independent terms?
Yes. I judge everything by a cocktail of ethics, aesthetics, and bias (shaken, not stirred please…) I cannot read a book that I know contains blatant discrimination or hatred, but from the authors mouth. If the author him/herself is projecting their skewed beliefs onto the characters and there does not seem like there is anything discerning from the author and the character then I believe that is a breach of ethical standards. I also wont read anything I know that deals with extreme opposition to things that I hold dear to me (that is for my sanity’s sake) and I also cant bear to get through a book that completely disregards the beauty of words. Henry Miller, Nabokov, Michelle Tea, Anais Nin, Mary Shelly, Oscar Wilde, they were all provocative writers who wrote about extremely controversial things that were unethical to some, but they kept the audience in mind and they also paid their dues to the beauty of words. They played with their own form and grammar and yet still were able to make the cocktail just right.
14. What writers from past centuries would you choose to have a nice, long dinner conversation with?
Oh Man! okay here are a few (in no particular order) :
Anais Nin & Henry miller
Lord Byron
Oscar Wilde
F. S. and Zelda Fitzgerald
Vladimir Nabokov
Anthony Burgees
Alan Ginsburg
Francesca L.Block
15. Name a few writers from differnet countries or cultural origin with whom you are familiar.
G.G. Marquez
Jiri Grusa
Cees Noteboom
Baudelaire
16. Why write?
I am going to (obnoxiously) excerpt from my essay again to help answer this.
“… if one were to extract themselves from the public by ignoring literature, (or more globally) we were a society apathetic to creative voices, we would become a society filled with the wicked and grow increasingly amoral. Percy Shelley says in “A Defense of Poetry” that:
“Poetry strengthened the faculty in which is the organ of the moral nature of man, in the same manner as exercise strengthens a limb.” (2, 961)
Shelley explains in “A Defense of Poetry” how the importance of the writer is not just to lend his voice, but to create. To drill into his imagination and bare witness to everything he sees, regardless of how vicious, splendid, or unbelievable the event. So that through him the reader can experience truth as well. Shelley writes “A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth….the [poem] is the creation of actions according to the unchangeable forms of human nature, as existing in the mind of the creator which itself the image of all other material.” He goes on to write “the story of particular facts is as a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”
Without the imaginative pictures painted by poets, there would just be words. Thick, dense, texts filled with philosophies and theories serving no purpose but to exist. It is through the imagination that the poet is able to relate to his audience, bend on one knee and let the public sip his knowledge, awakening them to the possibilities of foreign ideas. We can easily speak of the fallacies of man, love, death, betrayal in simple scientific and technical terms, but it becomes poetry and relatable when you can speak of love as a nightingale singing in night, death as a dense silent fog, betrayal as a succubus living in the depths of the sea. When an intangible feeling becomes an image, a public can imagine and relate. Through this relationship forms a mutual understanding felt globally. As every poet writes, and every person reads, a bond is created linking man to each other and subconsciously, we raise our glass in a toast to the unity of species.
“Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration, the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present, the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moves not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” – Percy Shelley”
So, then being able to create in this manner… I am obligated to share if for nothing else, than to awaken.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Are we at war?
the water is rising in all of my dreams but this time the water was violent and black.
My mother and I were cooking outside of our beachhouse when all of a sudden the water started to rise and get choppier and worse. it was rising really fast and my mother reached out to grab me. THe water was pulling away at the beach growing closer to the house. We were able to scramble inside and the floor was filling with water. We were scared about my dad who had left a couple hours ago to get something.
We heard then that the prison had been released to make way for victims and as a safe house from the 'storm'. then we realize that my dad had been in prison.
I cant remember the rest of the story but it lapsed into me being chased by these girls. One of whom is a chick i used to date. They chase me through a forest and through fields and through a graveyard where they finally cought it.
My mother and I were cooking outside of our beachhouse when all of a sudden the water started to rise and get choppier and worse. it was rising really fast and my mother reached out to grab me. THe water was pulling away at the beach growing closer to the house. We were able to scramble inside and the floor was filling with water. We were scared about my dad who had left a couple hours ago to get something.
We heard then that the prison had been released to make way for victims and as a safe house from the 'storm'. then we realize that my dad had been in prison.
I cant remember the rest of the story but it lapsed into me being chased by these girls. One of whom is a chick i used to date. They chase me through a forest and through fields and through a graveyard where they finally cought it.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
2012
a polar shift and one second extra...
or maybe left behind.
And when these lights zoom past me and i have to pull and pull at my skirt hem, i feel dizzy. One more second that didnt exist before.
reset the atomic clocks.
reset the human race.
backspace space space space delete.
or maybe left behind.
And when these lights zoom past me and i have to pull and pull at my skirt hem, i feel dizzy. One more second that didnt exist before.
reset the atomic clocks.
reset the human race.
backspace space space space delete.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
7
mega freak out last night. Still not sleeping. Still insomniatic 23 years later.
Today I wrote 11.30.2003 on the top of my paper. I was confused and for the quickest moment I couldn't comprehend how 5 years had passed and still I was the same kind of fucked up.
The kind that longs for 17 when 17 actually sucked. And the kind that is dwarfed by fear on a nightly basis.
oh hell oh hell oh hell.
Today I wrote 11.30.2003 on the top of my paper. I was confused and for the quickest moment I couldn't comprehend how 5 years had passed and still I was the same kind of fucked up.
The kind that longs for 17 when 17 actually sucked. And the kind that is dwarfed by fear on a nightly basis.
oh hell oh hell oh hell.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Mathematics of Distance.
She is not sure of her own sanity. Last night she was stuck between two giant fears. She was afraid that, as she lay on the floor of her sisters apartment, a few blocks away, her apartment was burning down.
She closed her eyes to hear the sirens.
The second thought put her into a less immediate panic, but emptied her of any full she felt. It was an instant but she was able to stop it, slow it down and see it. Maybe the Matrix was right, she hadn't even seen the whole thing, but it made so much sense that we were all just plugged into some giant dream generator. She thought that perhaps all her relationships were intended and feigned, that everything feeling like reality was just a psychotic delusion marred from the bottom of a grey steel cell with her arms wrapped locked around her body.
She opened her eyes and felt the carpet and her hair and her face and her thighs.
Tangible does not mean real. Imploring ones self to see rationally does not mean one will and then she was frightened. She cried because maybe this confusion was the only real thing. That the reason music is always playing, and she reads books with implausible situations, and drinks heavier than the city rains is because the need to withdraw herself is too great. Because in order to continue she needs to lie to herself until the death.
She holds her eyes open in fear of dreaming.
The day is numb but the night is for her. She falls into sleep and drops into strange places. She stands on cliffs miles above the earth only to see it has been flooded. She watches her friends die in black and white and red. She hears clapping and laughing and runs through long blue corridors of old crumbling buildings wondering if she will see the one solace.
She pulls her knees to chest and cries. Long slow heaves that pull swollen organs.
In her he leaves a trail of absence, and stirs in her an inexplicable amount of everything and nothing. There is a love with no label, and questions all together the science of this LOVE.
a+b=x but x=x and a= nothing at all.
but with him a+b=ab, and x=x, and on its own a= nothing, but paired with b, a becomes real.
She stands up and walks into the bathroom and writes these equations on the mirror with eye pencil. She sees them reflected twice and wishes she could squeeze an = between the reflections so there would be less mess. Purged onto the mirror she stands back and feels her left hand palpitate. Blood flows alright and she sits on the toilet drawing her knees to her chest. She is a. And he is b. and with out the other neither make sense.
and it makes perfect sense.
a remembers when once she told b when b feared his sanity...
...because you are not a normal person, if they cut you open it would be caverns and magnets and polars and alchemy would resurface as the ancient truth and in it is all because of you. We are not normal people. And we don't have a normal friendship. And this wont end badly because we both need each other too much, as both tangible and intangible movements.
She empties her head and sees her with him, standing on the edge of the end of the world with the only hand to hold is his.
She closed her eyes to hear the sirens.
The second thought put her into a less immediate panic, but emptied her of any full she felt. It was an instant but she was able to stop it, slow it down and see it. Maybe the Matrix was right, she hadn't even seen the whole thing, but it made so much sense that we were all just plugged into some giant dream generator. She thought that perhaps all her relationships were intended and feigned, that everything feeling like reality was just a psychotic delusion marred from the bottom of a grey steel cell with her arms wrapped locked around her body.
She opened her eyes and felt the carpet and her hair and her face and her thighs.
Tangible does not mean real. Imploring ones self to see rationally does not mean one will and then she was frightened. She cried because maybe this confusion was the only real thing. That the reason music is always playing, and she reads books with implausible situations, and drinks heavier than the city rains is because the need to withdraw herself is too great. Because in order to continue she needs to lie to herself until the death.
She holds her eyes open in fear of dreaming.
The day is numb but the night is for her. She falls into sleep and drops into strange places. She stands on cliffs miles above the earth only to see it has been flooded. She watches her friends die in black and white and red. She hears clapping and laughing and runs through long blue corridors of old crumbling buildings wondering if she will see the one solace.
She pulls her knees to chest and cries. Long slow heaves that pull swollen organs.
In her he leaves a trail of absence, and stirs in her an inexplicable amount of everything and nothing. There is a love with no label, and questions all together the science of this LOVE.
a+b=x but x=x and a= nothing at all.
but with him a+b=ab, and x=x, and on its own a= nothing, but paired with b, a becomes real.
She stands up and walks into the bathroom and writes these equations on the mirror with eye pencil. She sees them reflected twice and wishes she could squeeze an = between the reflections so there would be less mess. Purged onto the mirror she stands back and feels her left hand palpitate. Blood flows alright and she sits on the toilet drawing her knees to her chest. She is a. And he is b. and with out the other neither make sense.
and it makes perfect sense.
a remembers when once she told b when b feared his sanity...
...because you are not a normal person, if they cut you open it would be caverns and magnets and polars and alchemy would resurface as the ancient truth and in it is all because of you. We are not normal people. And we don't have a normal friendship. And this wont end badly because we both need each other too much, as both tangible and intangible movements.
She empties her head and sees her with him, standing on the edge of the end of the world with the only hand to hold is his.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
