Writer’s Block… not to be confused with that small eastern European contingent writers’ bloc. And wouldn’t the title be funnier if it were “To Have A Porpoise”
I’m often reminded of that line from the James Tate poem “Teaching the Ape to Write Poetry” “you look like a god sitting there, why don’t you try writing something.” There are so many barriers in my head to writing that it becomes very hard to write on a regular basis. I struggle with the self-importance of public journaling – my internal critic says what drivel. How do I get to a point where I can elevate the mundane to something more universal. I can remember my writing teachers in college telling us to write about what we know, and to some degree, I think the journaling is an attempt to get at what I know, an attempt to question it, to explore it, to plumb its depths.
This morning I went back to a few different posts, I looked at the tags I’ve assigned, I re-read past drivel. What I know is the deep love I felt and the subsequent loss I’ve experienced. What I know – or am currently experiencing is the loss of home and the attempt to re-establish something. What I know is that while I try to live without hope (meaning without expectation or desire), and simply be in the moment, I don’t go a day without thinking the cosmos isn’t done with my ex-fiancee, B, and me.
So… when I’m at the coffee shop, I write about us – small moments – insignificant to the bigger world, but moments that characterize the complexities and beauty of love. I read and steal snippets from titles and art and poems. This morning I saw the phrase “How We Disappear” – that needs to become a poem. Saturday it was the phrases “old old patience” and “our kisses head back home where they belong.” A week before, I was caught off guard by the economy of language when I read the phrase “missed station.”
I have a lot of things I’d like to write about – things beyond what I’ve focused on to date. I’m trying to pay more attention to visual art and find inspiration there. I bought a painting last week and a bookcase made from reclaimed doors. I’m going to post pics because I probably won’t get around to writing about them on their own.
I’m experiencing lots of music – I would love to write more about that but either I’m too in the moment to take adequate mental notes or I wait too long until after the event to really remember…. not to mention the beer. Just this past week alone I’ve heard Steve Cropper, Charlie Musselwhite, Dan Penn, and Marcus King Band (one of the best shows I’ve seen). There is of course the non live music – I was out the other night at a bar and they must have had Glass Animals radio on – which of course made me think of B – we listened to them a lot, especially while cooking dinner. I still play Wild Child and Michael Kiwanuka far too often for my own good “maybe this time, I can go far / But thinking about where I’ve been / ain’t helping me start.”
Poetry – I’m trying hard to get back in to writing more of that. I have yet to post a poem on here. None of them seem finished enough – maybe tonight I’ll put one up. The irony of all of this (writing/journaling) is that I still have no audience. It’s one long conversation with myself that can probably only be damning to me when read by a future partner… see “putting it all out there”
Another day, more drivel, more lamentations, more navel gazing, more incoherence and rambles…. At times I think my mind is a little on the scrambled side, completely lacking in the discipline required to make a point. B used to say she had a fish brain… I swear I just read an article about how grief changes the brain. But back to writing and the lack of coherence. Maybe that’s part of my problem. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on writing and the need to have a purpose, the need to make a point, the need to expand beyond the personal. I should probably just write.