Sunday, January 28, 2007

State of the Union

I do believe this is the longest I've been without posting since I've acquired this beauty. Eeech.
Sorry my lovelies, you have all been in my thoughts. This will be the longest catch up post in all of the world. I have been busy living life. It's pretty time consuming. But I missed you all. How shall I start, big or small?

Well let's be academic, I recently read an article about conceptual poetry, by super poet man Kenneth Goldsmith . Concepetual poetry in a nut-shell is literature that is less about feeling and more about concept and construction. Meaning and metaphor take a back seat to innovation. Often conceptual poets will take already published works or "found" material and manipulate it. Goldsmith talks about the valuelessness of conceptual poetry in an already struggling industry:
"Language as material, language as process, language as something to be shoveled into a machine and spread across pages, only to be discarded and recycled once again. Language as junk, language as detritus. Nutritionless language, meaningless language, unloved language, entartete sprache, everyday speech, illegibility, unreadability, machinistic repetition. Obsessive archiving & cataloging, the debased language of media & advertising; language more concerned with quantity than quality. How much did you say that paragraph weighed?
And although its practitioners often come from disciplines outside of literature, the work is framed through the discourse and economy of poetry: these works are received by, written about, and studied by readers of poetry. Freed from the market constraints of the art world or the commercial constraints of the computing & science worlds, the non-economics of poetry create a perfectly valueless space in which these valueless works can flourish."
Literature is funny like that and interesting. My first thought was, yeah, why the hell does conceptual poetry exist? What kind of person writes emotionless poems? In class we kind of talked about why we write. No one could exactly answer the question. Is it for others entertainment? Is it out of an insatiable need? Ego? Well Goldsmith tends to think that for conceptual poets it's all about ego, and boredom. Why do I write? I suppose it's in my bones and my head. I mean fuck, sometimes I can't understand how I even feel. When that happens how the hell am I supposed to make someone else understand me? Writing is a sort of synthesis. When I get out all the wildness in front of me, I can begin to put it back together so mayhaps it will make sense to others, and myself. Yeah, a part of me also wants to entertain and teach. I used to think that was a terrible thing wanting to write for others, but the more I write the more comfortable I am with the concept. As long as there is an element of sincerity always present I think I'll be okay. Anyway I can't really draw, can't really sing, got no rhythm, I need some kind of artistic endeavor to call my own. So basically don't get avant-garde and conceptual poetry mixed up. One is good and one is lame. ALSO read my stuff and enjoy it, but don't talk to me about it; because I will get that deer in the headlights flushed face look and run away.

Moving on.
Yes, that's what I'm trying to do.
*Ex-lover you don't deserve any of this. This time in my head. When I've got boat-loads of reasons to insert apples, candies, and outstanding punctuation; Instead of dumb rewound ghost feelings. I am establishing a life so independent of you it’s painful. Painful? Maybe not, I feel better about me than ever. Why no, it's not pain, just work. Lots of work. But still people keep saying, oh that ex-lover you two are so funny, made for each other give it time. It's just how you two operate. I don't believe that for a second, and I don't find anything funny about the whole damned thing, and I really don't know how (or why) people keep giving you the benefit of the doubt. But this psychic link that you garner, somehow magically popping up just as soon as I've successfully blocked you out of my psyche. Well, it's bizarre. Come in or get out. Though just to let you know this time: "([you] Don't Stand) A Ghost Chance With [me]." Remember the Monk metaphor? That man is good at articulating our relations. If friendship is what you want then act like a friend, otherwise forget you ever knew me.

We both know it ain't me babe, oh no it ain't me you're looking for.

Though I've let so much go, I can't shake some of your up-scale baggage. Thanks to you I've programmed myself to expect the worse. Maybe I don't even understand what "good" is anymore. My love was a kind of blind love. We were nothing, that was everything. I don't trust others and I don't trust myself. And now, NOW I expect lies and insults - yelling matches and waterworks - three awful nights for one good night - selfish and unforgiving - jealous and cold - insecurity and anger, yet somehow I have gotten the inverse of all this.

now I have to feel awful and ask myself silly questions like:

What the hell am I supposed to do with warmth and honesty? When is he going to inexplicably get pissed and pack his bags in the middle of the night and threaten to trot off to his mother's place? I'll know exactly how to handle that. That's what would make these interactions feel normal. Harsh? Well let's not begin to dance around those ancient french quarters.

You've had your chance and your fun now let me have mine.
now I have to make declarations like:

I don't want to be a steel wool scratch pad. I'm tired of holding this ice-pose. And I hope you can dig this and keep hugging me like you mean it, cause I mean it. Ignore the cold stare and frightened glazed over look I may acquire when times get a little thick. Sometimes self-preservation is of the utmost importance. Though I don't know if I'm trustable quite yet. Quite yet, I'm a messy mess. But I promise I clean up nicely.

Pleasant Surprise:
You knew all the words and what I like most is the only difference when we're sober is that our clothes end up in nice piles.

*By the time I finished writing this, I realized the harsh tones still in my heart. It's not all brass knuckles and forget me nots. I do miss your stories and etc (all the things that don't make me want to yell and throw things at you). I mean I still care a ton, but try to understand what I'm attempting to establish, and how very hard it is to forgive and forget. I won't go back and delete everything I feel, even with your laissez-faire attitude.

On a lighter note, I love when things come full-circle. Best friend Conneticut turned me on to the clapping barrier. Physical limitations etc. A very frustrating and beautiful thing. Something that since its inception has completely fascinated me. I talked in great length about this with an old friend last night, and today I discovered a poem about the very same phenomenon. The poem was "Theory of Sublime" (only an excerpt) by Mark Doty. My favorite lines are, "and then at the height of my clapping,/ when I can push no further into the thinning air ... at the limit of praise, when the flesh/begins to reassert that it is welded/to the giddy soul trying to get out from the top of the head" Well thank you mister Doty for not only articulating a grand physical phenomena, but for quietly answering for me the question: Why do I write?

and I thought poetry was dead.

it's all about connection baby. Life is worth living and running around and discovering new ways to think and love and experience and all that sappy exciting giddyness.

Be present folks, and send out good vibes.

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