confessions
So I’ve been writing lately, the good stuff–you know, poems (or at least poemlike things)–but I haven’t been posting. This is not like me, as my loyal core dozen or so readers know!
So, why haven’t I been posting them?
It’s just, well, what I’ve been writing lately is squirmy to admit to. These are confessional poems that give up stuff that I’ve tried to hide from myself, and only incidentally from everybody else. I’ve held back posting because I haven’t wanted to look at the issues. But I’m also compelled by a different imperative. “Wrote it, must post it.”
It’s an addiction. Can’t help it. Let’s face it: I’m a blog whore. That’s why I write about myself. I don’t want to embarrass anybody else. I’m really a very private person with a nasty public habit.
And the people I care about are also very private people. So I generally don’t write about them, just as I imagine they would prefer. This is not to be interpreted as, I only think about or care about myself.
Got that, kids? I’m refraining from writing about you for your benefit. I could blather on the topic of you for longer than I like to think, and don’t think I wouldn’t love to.
But I ain’t gonna. Be grateful, dammit! (I might rarely show photos. But just the ones that feature me.)
Must. Spill. (some kind of) Beans. To. World.
Whatever bits of the world will have me, that is. Because who wants to hear what I want to say, anyway? WhothefugamI? Ohfugeddaboudit.
(Wait–what’s that sound? So distant, tinny and ethereal… it’s… yes, it’s tiny violins!)
Oh, get over it, phee. You know you’re going to. So do it. You’ll like it, just as you always do. Go ahead. It’s awesome. Post that blog. Go. Go. DO IT!
Hey, that’s right! I’ll like it–it’s what I like to do–yeah–show my insides outside–tell the world, and if the world don’t care, the world won’t read it, and so what? Gosh, what was I feeling pathetic about, a minute ago?
Oh right, I wrote about it in the poems! So I don’t have to hang on to that story anymore. All right.
It’s all good. Okay. Here goes.
First a suggestion that you read the following as if it were fiction. Because it is. Everything is. As soon as I tell one part’s point of view, a dozen others surface, with different tales, conflicting stories, and it’s all true, and it’s all fiction. As a poet friend of mine once said (actually he was considerably more than a friend, but that’s a tale long cold and best told another time, if at all), and I am paraphrasing from memory here “What I say, feel, do, think, am now is not necessarily what I say, feel, do, think, am now”
These is just poems. Read them as such. Thanks.
This means you, Mom! Don’t worry about me!
Girding my girdle of girth, and interspersing my artsy fartsy narcissistica (you know: the glaringly prominent, heavily post-processed self-portraits this post is studded with, either an obstacle course for the eye or a nice treat, depending on your druthers), here goes.
This is the first poem thing, from a few days ago. It’s sort of a song. Kind of.
Confessions of a Slob
I’m a slob, sitting in the mess and the dust of my room
I’m a slob, staring at the light of the screen, bright as the moon
I can see the moon, look right there
in that image from NASA that was taken with a telescope
someplace far away from here
got no job, got no boss got no wage, got no pages in the books
being written about the history of the race right now
’cause no one knows me and nobody listens to the things that I say,
I’m just another flea bouncing on the knee of the blogosphere
why should I bother?
I’m a slob, got no order in my life, got no stress,
I say what I feel, and I don’t imagine anybody hears
except my nears and my dears, my mom and my friends and family
sometimes they post a comment and it freaks me out
because I think I’m talking to the universe
I think I’m shrieking in the void
I don’t believe in people, they’re just things that I avoid,
like obstacles on my course, a discomforting force
while it’s comfort that I seek
and a stage from which to speak
to the universe
And this is the second poem, from earlier tonight. Also, sort of a song. They’ll both change, doubtless; at some point I plan to create a proper website with places for the finished product. And recordings too. It’s in the works. That is, if ‘in the works’ is defined as ‘often thought about but nothing yet acted on’.
Anyway. Onward.
Confessions of a Creature of Habit: the Messenger’s Lament
I speak as the messenger who has been murdered
and is therefore afraid to speak
I speak as she who remembers everything
and is therefore afraid to try anything new
I speak as the one who no one comes to,
who shuns as she is shunned
the one who never found out
just what she came here to do
I must be careful what I say I must be
careful what I do
I came here but never wanted to
if I could choose, I would return home
I am the one, and so are you
we are the one, and this is true
we are the only ones who know to do
the things that we are born to do
we dare to think and feel that maybe
everything is real and even
dark dreams can come true
and feel good
I have the power, I have the choice
I have the truth, I have the voice
I have the chance, if I so choose
to live the life I always lose
each time I’ve had it
I’m just a creature of habit
I speak as the messenger who has been murdered
and is therefore afraid to speak
I speak as she who remembers everything
and is therefore afraid to try anything new
I speak as the one who no one comes to,
who shuns as she is shunned
the one who never found out
just what she came here to do
I must be careful what I say I must be
careful what I do
I came here but never wanted to
if I could choose, I would return home
do I dare, how can I share
it’s so unfair
it’s so unfair
…
Okay. I’m over it.
The self-portraits are in chronological order, oldest to newest. They may accidentally line up with the post and add a cool oracular kind of extra layer of meaning, but it is entirely unintentional. As always, if you want to know more about a particular pic, click on it to go to the flickr page, where they are captioned.
