I sang in harmony today with my pregnant co-teacher. I've been thinking a lot about the scattered ways of my being today. I have tried to be a singer, writer, yogi, savior...uh many other things...
But I always return to the pen...or in this case, the computer and keyboard. I try to make my experiences sing for me, but I find they want to be bottled up...they don't want me to force themselves out of the jar...so they stay stuck...like me.
My sad state of writing...I don't want to see it as something I am always trying to resuscitate...bring back to life, out of the closet...
But things often don't have lives of their own...you have to keep pumping blood into them...or pummeling them until they feel again...a fly slamming his head into the glass...but not until his death, until he breaks through to the other side...or finds a small crevice of open space to fly through and end up at his destination, the other side. By writing, aren't we just all trying to get to the other side: whether that other side is the other side of the day, the year, a conversation with a lover, your parent. Writing is struggle, it has lungs of its own and it wants to shout to me. But often I find myself keeping it muffled...I watch Sex & the City, eat pints upon pints of ice cream, and truffles...and I stuff the voice down...till it comes bubbling up one day..and I have to pull it out till it comes up, stalks, hairy roots and all...our from the the depths of the earth and it says, "AAAAaaaaaaaaahhhhrg! You fucker...never put me back in the refrigerator again, don't try to eat me and swallow me down to be digested and flushed down to the toliet...Listen to me you fucker." But most of the time, I hear it as a muffled, shy grin, something that is curled up instead of bold...I shake it by its corners and wait to see what will come out of its pockets...will a wide range of colored balls roll out, or will it be only eight balls...coming at me...or snake eyes...the same dismal numbers coming up again and again? Or will I roll and the dice come up blank...my ultimate fear.
But I always return to the pen...or in this case, the computer and keyboard. I try to make my experiences sing for me, but I find they want to be bottled up...they don't want me to force themselves out of the jar...so they stay stuck...like me.
My sad state of writing...I don't want to see it as something I am always trying to resuscitate...bring back to life, out of the closet...
But things often don't have lives of their own...you have to keep pumping blood into them...or pummeling them until they feel again...a fly slamming his head into the glass...but not until his death, until he breaks through to the other side...or finds a small crevice of open space to fly through and end up at his destination, the other side. By writing, aren't we just all trying to get to the other side: whether that other side is the other side of the day, the year, a conversation with a lover, your parent. Writing is struggle, it has lungs of its own and it wants to shout to me. But often I find myself keeping it muffled...I watch Sex & the City, eat pints upon pints of ice cream, and truffles...and I stuff the voice down...till it comes bubbling up one day..and I have to pull it out till it comes up, stalks, hairy roots and all...our from the the depths of the earth and it says, "AAAAaaaaaaaaahhhhrg! You fucker...never put me back in the refrigerator again, don't try to eat me and swallow me down to be digested and flushed down to the toliet...Listen to me you fucker." But most of the time, I hear it as a muffled, shy grin, something that is curled up instead of bold...I shake it by its corners and wait to see what will come out of its pockets...will a wide range of colored balls roll out, or will it be only eight balls...coming at me...or snake eyes...the same dismal numbers coming up again and again? Or will I roll and the dice come up blank...my ultimate fear.
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Michigan
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Re: My first fragment installation
Fri, April 1, 2005 - 7:56 AMWhy am I always gravitated to the ones that are bound so tightly...I want to take a small knife to them and create loose threads...or let them spin out of control. So...I confuse them...bewilder, help them into my world or head space, and they always come out the other side a transformed person...with wings or wild eyes...and eating everything within their grasp.
First I told him that I was disappointed..then I wanted to splash him with paint...all over his new khaki jacket. I shamed, then scared him...and still I feel gravitated. Awful.
I sang opera and jazz to m kids today...and they said, "Why are you here?" Why are you here? Why are you here? they repeated. I am learning how to sing loudly, then quietly. I don;t raise my voice to the kids anymore, I don't need to.
