July 17th, 2009

[Fighting writer's block]

To my distant lover.

When I said always
What I meant was...always.
And what I meant by that was--

I could take the disarray of stars and fit the universe in my throat.  I could spit out constellations an d have them  line up obediently on paper.  I could make metaphors out of lava fields and sulfur an d cradle the uinatainable in my arms as if it had just been born into something raw an d touchable.

And I could do this all with little more than an empt field, the crushed, bleached an d dried remains of a tree, th e feather of a bird an d something to dip in for ink.

Yes, my God loves me, and he lets m e borrow a little taste of his power during special moments I call 'inspiration'

He said...

I said "I need to get published or something.  I need to write something, complete it, and get it out there.  I need to stop being a Computer tech/network Administrator and be a WRITER!"

He said: "No, you need to just be a writer.  Just write it, man.  Get it down on paper.  Worry about publishing and all that stuff later.  if its in your mind it'll poison everything."

And I said: "Y'know you're right.  I need to get back to just writing short stories and handing them to friends saying 'here, read this.'  Those were the good days.  The really prolific days."

Only...I couldn't really think of any friends to give anything to.  And that's a horrible thing to say really.

On the Saturday Night Poetry Revival

About a year ago, maybe more, some friends and I got together to form a group called Polymath.  In truth, we just formed a group to put on shows, performances really, that we ourselves would want to see.  We called ourselves Polymath because these three guys; a statistician, a computer technician, and...I don't even know what the other guy does, and we built this show on our own.  We wrangled talent and arranged business proposals and understandings.  We designed sets in a way that put the spotlight on the performers at all angles, and controlled crowds at the same time.  We were on our way to national fame.  Just three guys.  No money.  Doing shit on weekends.

And then we stopped.

The truth; not an excuse but the absolute truth is we were exhausted, and so were our contributing poets.  Too much of a good thing isn't just bad for you, it can completely kill your spirit.  We needed a break, so we took one.  For a year.  People were getting antsy of course, asking when we would have another show. "What happened to the shows?  When are you having another show?"  But no.  We were tired.  Or at least I was tired.

Because, to say that the poetry in Belmopan is an exhaustible resource is a straight up cop out.  There's more out there.  I'm sure of it.  Its just not the quality we'd want.  And that's our fault really.  I've had it in my head for the longest while to sit with these poets and have a long chat about 'performance'.  "You're not just reading your poems', I'd tell them.  "You're performing.  You're expressing how you felt at the time, how you feel each time you read it.  Even if you don't memorize it, at least give it a bit of emotion!"  I'd let them listen to some of the poets I enjoy listening to.  I'd subject them to Saul Williams' rants and have Anis Mojgani make them laugh while they cried.  We'd listen to beat poets synch their poems up to music that only they can hear and that, through their words, the rest of us can feel. 

We want the next one to be a real show.  There was a plan to arrange an outdoors show.  Setting up a stage would only be a small step up from setting up the cafe and backdrop from scratch.  We had everything dreamed out.  What we lacked was the money.  And, perhaps on my part, the propper gumption.

You see, I can't expect people to start writing, to get brave enough to perform again, if I can't do it myself.  And that's the only thing stopping us, really.

Head like Cotton

Ugh.  Hungry.  Can't focus.  Perhaps we should start with some Tab Closing.

You know how dreaming is just your brain revisiting all the crap you experienced during the day?  I think my writing is a way of revisiting all the things I've read.  I say this because whenever I'm trying to write something, that is -willing- myself to write, I end up reading voraciously, and then something comes out.  Not always something great, mind you.  But its something.

I'm in love with short stories.  I don't think that'll ever change.  Something in my mind tells me that novels are superior.  it might be the same thing that tells me I have to stay in a job that makes me miserable.  Short story collections don't usually sell as well as novels, but they're more worthy of celebration, I think.  Apparently the people at Harper Perennial agree.  Fifty-Two Stories » with Cal Morgan is their own celebration of the short story.  Of course, celebrations are meant to be shared experiences, so they're sharing them with us, one story a week.  They've got 27 so far, so you and I can play catch up.

But i am too easily distracted.

I also ought to focus on just one thing, rather than the entire guise of writing.  For a while I've wanted to do some sort of Belizean fantasy fiction.  We've got a plethora of old folklore here that deserves to be kept alive, as well as plenty of space for new ones.  I feel like its a bit risky though.  With so many cultures I'm almost sure to step on somebody's toes.  But its worth a shot.  Some collaboration would be great too.  Its been a while since I've been in contact with anyone from B.W.A.P.S..  The fact that the 'Short Stories' section on their website is completely blank isn't very comforting though.  I'm too busy pushing myself, and failing, to push anyone else.

Read Write Poem  is great for poetry prompts, I think, and just the thing for this odd writer's block that I feel coming on.  But again, I'm all poem'd out.  How about some Short Story Prompts?  I've bookmarked it, but don't think I'll be coming back to this one today.

I don't know why I even have PEN American Center open in a tab. to be completely honest.  Just more evidence of how fractured my thinking is right now.

That's about it for now.

Remembering Ozzy

Here I am, struggling through a personal essay for yet another attempt
to get out applications before January.  However despite a collection of
soothing instrumentals and jazz, and despite there being absolutely
nothing to distract me (obnoxious, belching co-workers included) except
my own buzzing procrastination, my internal editor, and the ever present
internet, it really is a struggle.  I've got a lot on my mind, you see,
and its set me on a sort of bitterly angry, frustrated mood. 
Everything sounds so tongue-in-cheek, not the kind of impression you'd
want to give an acceptance committee, and every revision sounds even
more like I'm saying "Y'know what?  Fuck you.", albeit in more eloquent
banter.

And then I rememberd Ozzy.

The question was 'When
did you become interested in this field (creative writing/English)..."
and my immediate answer was, of course, 'Since Childhood, when I would
overindulge in an overactive imagination'.  I'd expanded upon that by
mentioning that everyone used to sort of laugh and point at the kid who
spent his precious break-time talking to lizards and contemplating the
daily lives of those who resided in the kingdom of clouds.  I was
considered a little bit weird for commanding invisible armies and stupid
for trying to feel the heartbeats of trees.  But after we started
writing in language arts classes, I'd sort of found my niche.  If anyone
thought my stories were weird or stupid then, they didn't say.  The
closest ones too me didn't at least.  They just said 'Write more.'

If
I were to be completely honest I'd admit that this only applied to
those that were in my age group, and with the way Belize's Primary
Schools are managed, I knew all 30 kids in my age group personally,
since I had to sit in the same class room with them day in and day out. 
The younger ones, even those a year younger, wouldn't get it.  And the
older ones wouldn't care to.  The long hours my mother used to pull even
then meant that I was often left alone with the older ones, and being
accepted by my peers didn't mean much when my peers were no longer
there.  The big kids didn't just laugh and point and try to make me feel
bad.  Some, just for kicks, seemed inclined to beat the imagination out
of me, but Osmond Chan wouldn't let them.

It started out
strangely.  I was in my own world, being weird and stupid in the
schoolyard piloting helicopters over the countryside, seeking
out enemy military installments or artillery units to neutralize, when
suddenly someone jumped over the school fence and started making
du-du-du-du-du noises with his mouth I came under heavy
fire from an enemy chopper.  I got scared, but no less weird or
stupid I broke off from my original target and took evasive
action, but her pursued with his arms tucked in tight at the
elbows and fingers pointed missile-pods fully loaded and
vulcans hot and ready.  I ran around a bit, almost ran into the
wall, turned and went Pshew! Pshew! Pshew!  Then he pretended to
crash.  I tried to evade as best I could, and even managed to
slip through a narrow ravine where, despite some damage to my rotors, I
was able to empty my remaining payload and burried him in the rubble.

Here
was someone who could engage with me the way no one else had so far. 
Who didn't just play with me, but played along, adhering to the rules
and laws that we made together.  We made it a regular thing after
school, slaying dragons and fending off alien invasions.  Mind you, many
a time our adventures would descend to 'Lets wash these magic dishes',
but I let him have those every so often.  It was the least I could do
for all the times he'd protected me from meanspirited older kids eager
to rob a ten year old of his snack money, and even for saving me from a
group of kids who thought I should have my first hit of weed by force. 
Most importantly though, he accepted me. and told me that there was no
reason I should feel ashamed for having a bright imagination.  I owe
Ozzy, as he had me call him, endless thanks and appreciation.

I'd
been in New York for about two and half years, and returned in 1996. 
Sometime during that time Ozzy died in a traffic accident.  Though I may
remember him occasionally, I'll never forget him completely.