I’m no poet, just a 12th house monster….
I guess I am perhaps trying to retrace my steps to when I was last a much happier writer as to look back upon my musings posts for many years now, I find certainly a poet, but a harrowing, lonely soul with too much weight of the world around him consuming, drowning and him/me trying to escape and failing so writing epitaph after epitaph of a human side of my place in the world, with the main joy, always found in my ever growing bond with nature, for in the waves i do not feel alone, or judged or anything other than at peace and in calm or lively marvel.
From Tolstoy to Balzac to Knut Hamsun to Conrad to Chekov to Tolstoy to the human beast of ZOla…to ANgela Carter to then ANais Nin…Moliere and Ibsen and Strindberg in between…I reflect the artists who wrote and I consumed, and it has dawned upon me of late, that I need to get back to the source of why I moved from puerile rhymes scribbled drunk on whiskey and dizzy with herbs, when an eccentric housemate, who would salvage electronic trash to turn toasters and kettles into an orchestra, one night, appeared at my door, and demanded, sullenly, that I read a novella in his hand thrust at my snout…Happy Birthday Jack Nicholson. By Hunter St Thompson…that one collision changed my life.
Hunter may be remembered as a drug addled mutant, yet he was a serious, sensitive man. Assuredly one of the most powerfully honest writers of our time. And he had mischief abounding, a berserk eagerness for adventure and wickedness…he taught me much. To return to his work, his writing, his voice, his life, causes me to ponder, and understand, I have gone too deep into the mire of poet wanderer wayward…I have no eagerness to become Rimbaud LAzarus, yet my outpourings here of the last few years suggests such leanings. Where is the mischief??? and playfulness??? I seek honesty, more than poetry. And my lifelong connections to those who matter most mean more to me than any prose perfect, chiseled…and Nin has raised my reverence to deity levels, then revealed herself as deceitful, hurtful…I am many things, some awful, some decent, yet a bass line has long been established of integrity, of treating people Right, of loyalty…Nin wrote more perfectly and wisely and poetically than any other I have come across, but she was a deceitful, manipulative all too typical human…I prefer Reverie>>>
She is pure. WHich is priceless and precious in this world long gone wrong and rotten…
Absent of inspiration from the patterns of no growth, just dull comfort…
concerned that my heart may be seared shut,
still in love with all who came before the searing and have left or are in other galaxies,
the mind and spirit continued to scurry and prance,
and only the reflection of my seared closed heart found through others who approach,
causes me to ponder,
whether a cage or the capacity has been reached,
has formed around all that matters most.
WHich leaves me,
if these considerations have any purchase on reality…
as cynical a bastard as Pechorin.
who I have been compared to,
by the same valkyrie claws dug too deep into me to bear when the scales ever wavering,
leaned too deep and certainly towards AGONY.
AGony teaches,
yet it also fucking hurts.
Some lessons leave us a husk of what we once were and can no longer be…
I have spent myself seeking,
projecting this beautiful waterfall and butterfly true romance….
I failed,
yet despise emerging from the dreaming in wakefulness fairytales of my own manufacture,
Still I can smile and encourage everyone to freefall into the abyss of uncertainty,
give everything,
hope for everything…
And write letters…
even in virtual ink.
We have become too accustomed to quickfire Hey You vapid exchanges,
pen on paper has gone for the many,
yet what is stopping you taking an hour to sit down,
pour a few drinks,
focus on someone you love,
a brother, a sister, anyone who means much to you,
and write of your life…
write love letters.
This shortening of human contact is a symptom of a system guided by a policy eager for division.
Play them at their own game.
If you cant speak on the phone, dont write Hey You! on fuckbook,
earmark some time and write of all you feel, all you live, all you love of the recipient
connect in more human ways in this digital age.
When did you last do this?
When did you last receive more than a brief virtual greeting from those you love?
Write letters…not brief, meaningless 30 second tapping of buttons on the phone or laptop.
We need to make every moment matter.
Avoid the herding towards an exchange of vapid chatter….
Speak what you mean,
not repeat what you have seen,
of the scripted bullshit…
Be honest as the forest, always, in all ways…
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