I’ve been away from internet for a few days, how lovely. I return from reading and writing, poetry mainly, because this is how i enjoy communication. I’ve been writing on this platform for a few years, because it made sense to me to use this medium for the kind of hybrid textuality i enjoy. I came from a bit of spoken word, improv, devised theater, clown, somatic art… and now i’m supposably a teacher in this age of trauma, with all the projections that entails.
And yet i still push back on this mono-identity matrix thing that is happening. I try to “make sense” sometimes because so many people are in such pain – mental, physical, emotional, spiritual, cultural pain.
To tell you the truth, my truth, a truth, i would rather be seen as the tom waits of counseling if i had my druthers. so with all this prefacing out of the way, here is a poem i wrote this weekend that hopefully acts as both a warning and an invitation.
if it is merely for other humans, with their resonant struggles and secret kinks, then i do not want to write.
if it is for the animals, who do not care about what i am saying because it has no bearing on their actual lives except in the ways i might harm them with my frightened actions, then i do not want to write.
if it is for the plants and trees and flowers, who inspire me sometimes but who go on and on in worlds i can’t describe, then i do not want to write.
if it is for the lands that dream me, that i only speak of in hushed and cryptic tones out of the corners of my mouth when i stupidly dare to think about time and death, then i do not want to write.
if it is for the gods, who hold a broken mirror to my broken face and clap with thunder and cry with rain but ultimately swallow up my gifts like butterscotch candy, appreciating me as i appreciate each breath, which is to say, very briefly or not at all, then i do not want to write.
if it is for my other selves, who dwell in colored layers in the essence of my gaseous mind – the mind i think is mine, but maybe i am just a Walmart joker in their courtyard telling lies about the royal family from the cheep perspective of a drunk bird with annoying whistles and a depreciating mortgage on the dark side of town – then i may want to write to liberate myself from myself, a noble effort with no chance in hell, in which case then i do not want to write.
if i am writing because i have to, in the same sort of way one has to defecate, or else become devoured by what i have devoured, then i do not want to write.
if i write to be in service of transforming order into chaos again, then i must write.