a thing, for a change

 If I am teaching creative writing

Perhaps I should write

And even try to be creative about it. 

Perhaps.

I don't want to be That Professor/Teacher who makes students read/study their (the teacher's) own work....but then even if I write, I'm under no obligation to share this with them, am I. So maybe this would just be a good thing to do, to get me back in the zone.

I mean I don't know that I ever did anything particularly....good? But I like some of what I wrote, so I guess that's good enough.

Good enough to post a thing or two here, anyway. 

Side note: this blog is 11 years old. I missed the 10 year anniversary. How wild is that?....How old am I?????

Ramble me this way

It's been far, far too long

Since I indulged myself with a poetic rant

Not that this is poetry

Not really

But saying things in lines

Breaking up the thoughts I have into lines

Using space and playing with position

Makes everything seem a little more creative somehow

Not that this is creative

Not really

I want to Make.

I want to Grow.

I want to Be.

Have I once again forgotten how?

They said it was a journey

Not a race, not a prize, not a destination

But I did forget that, I think. 

I thought I had...well. Arrived

At the finish line

Time to remind myself that there isn't one, and it's not my fault

I don't have to hate myself or judge myself for not getting to something that doesn't exist

There are ups and downs, good days and bad days, smiles and sorrows and slipping backwards before striding forward again

I haven't lost, and I'm not finished, and I push, and push, and push, and push, and push (am I through the hard part yet? the answer is always no)

It's just hard, lately. To remember...why. To keep grasping for sunlight and close my weakening fingers around empty, dead air.

let it out

Writing is a muscle that can

    atrophy and grow cold

Weaken and sicken and shrivel and wilt

    Unless you let it breathe

    Take the deep, slow, smooth breath

    Take the choking, halting, sobbing breath

    Take the short, sharp, angry breath

    Take the small, sad, shivering breath

        

            and let it fill you up

with words and words and words and words

      until you can't do anything

    but run - fly - sing - dance

        those words onto the page

Climbing the hill

Here it is. The birthday post.

I watched my birthday movie.

I did my birthday facemask.

I drank my birthday coffee.

I ate my birthday garbage food.

I made my birthday cake.

I had my birthday cry.

And I reminded myself that, though stuff isn't necessarily great, it could be worse. 

I've had setbacks, but I've taken steps towards what and who I want to be. 

I've had problems, but I've survived.

I'm still learning myself, still shaping myself, still accepting myself, still becoming myself. 

And I suppose that'll keep happening. 

I'm twenty-nine.

Out of the Box

how productive is it, really, to write about not writing
to say over and over again that i've run out of words to say

is that true
have i lived all i have to live
and given what i'll ever have to give
am i dried up now, free-flowing well-spring of creativity used up now

or

did i stop living
did i stop giving
did i bury the well, choke the spring
cram myself into a small, dark box
where i pretended i was safe
where i pretended i'd lived enough
where i pretended i'd given enough
where i pretended i could stay forever

I'm pushing back the lid.

in-spire (self-imposed)

To force out words when nothing comes to mind;

To strain and pull and grasp; to meditate

on emptiness and gaps where I can't find

even a single thought to explicate;

To quibble, trite in inspiration's lack;

To stumble on uneven turns of phrase;

To charge without a clear plan of attack;

To search for something, anything that says

I am a creator. I have a gift

Worth your attention. I am worth your time.

But all I've ever been is now adrift.

I've lost myself. I guess I can still rhyme.

So here's a set of matching words. It's small.

And I don't know if they mean much at all.

the sun Will come out tomorrow

Hope feels dangerous.

A common enough sentiment, expressed by more fluid, fluent, frequent speakers than myself.

One I've taken to heart many hundreds of times over.

Don't want.
Don't like.
Don't enjoy.

Don't

hope.

To desire is to expose, to give the world a foothold or handle to step on you or pull you down.

Hope is much the same, daring the (apparently) uncaring universe to take, steal, shred, kill the dream you dreamed so recklessly.

My mantra: expect the worst, hope for the best. But the latter half is forgotten so often.

Expect the worst.
Expect the worst.
Expect the worst.

Because to hope would make it worse than worst, a syntactical impossibility but a crushing inevitability. Betrayal piled on disappointment topped with despair.

If the worst happens.

If it doesn't . . .


Hope is dangerous,

but

it,

despite repressive laments, desperate dismissals, flat denials,

is
inevitable.