jim carroll's death is still heavy on my mind this morning in spite of the bright day or because of it. it is a strange low call that pushes, pushes, pushes to be good, to write, to mean it, every line, each word, the weight considered, endless, endless, a strange low call and the pen, toward something better than i am. and i don't care how cliched it sounds, it's the fact and the truth-
a voice whispers out of the slept-in sheets that says, "fuck it. it doesn't need to be 'good', it just needs to be done. fuck it if it's bad and fuck it if it's stupid, just do it. the point is in the ink and the pages turned and all the fluid that spills and leaks and seeps. be brave. be restless. say 'fuck it'. because fuck it if no one likes it and fuck it if they think it's useless and fuck it if people say poetry has no point and is stupid and indulgent. they're wrong. fuck em. write and write til your pretty little hands turn gnarled and useless and then learn to write with your teeth because that's what poetry needs, that's what poetry IS so just say 'fuck it' and go. go."
the light comes in all patchy down from the trees and the air has no weight to it and i wrote 12 pages in my notebook this morning. i am drinking coffee, my blessed hazelnut, and already i know the day is good. i can feel it. it has already been so kind to me. there is no touch of deception anywhere and there aren't any reasons to fear an ugly head rising out of the blankets. the newness is beautiful. the light spills and spills, the color of lemonade, the color a whisper might be. i am cooled. i am called to my books and my little puddles of black gouache. i have been making sweet little things these passed two weeks because that's what i needed around me. i haven't taken their picture because right now i need then all for me, no documents. i will share soon but for now the playful, easy work of investigation takes precedence. it is all process. it is all discovery. it doesn't matter if it's 'good' because it is GOOD. a tool of gentleness. a means to kindness. a way to practice sensitivity and thoughtfulness, a way of reaching toward delicacy. i will share, i promise. but today is for walking and looking and breathing hard, all wrapped up in good light and because i can, endless, endless, and a strange low beautiful whisper that says "fuck it".
3 comments:
The mastery of practice is the mastery of any art. Why have any other goal?
I'm still home with the flu but I wrote 3 poems yesterday. Why is sickness bringing these poems? I know why. You know why. Because of Elsie. Because I'm terrified to write her. Everything else is popcorn and a movie.
love,
Rebecca aka Barf Queen
she is the hard-kept little center. she is all secrets and light and dark dark dark. she knows things. bad things. and too young to carry them all this long. i understand being afraid of her- i've had such a hard time with her portraits. it hurts to even attempt them. it seems like i am caught up in waiting for the right day or moment when she actually comes and gets me to make me do the drawing. i can't force her at all. she won't allow it. not an inch.
i'm so happy you are writing at such a firey pace. ariel style! :) the work you've done so far is so cutting and gorgeous that i really don't know how to comment without gushing all over you. they are blessed and haunted all at once.
practice is all i've got and i will protect it with my life. it is my life. i know you know. :)
ps. you are so RIGHT! i just used my own comment as a poem! ha! another little shard to work on. :)
i hope you feel better, my sweet sister. thank you for everything.
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