Writers

I'm cleaning things up on my interwebs and want to "re-post" here a short reflection I wrote a few years ago.

Writers are:

• passionate, because they are fully engaged in a subject;
• considerate and friendly, because they care about others;
• playful, because they are connected to their "inner child";
• balanced, because they value diversity and differing perspectives;
• thoughtful, because they are careful thinkers and dedicated communicators;
• socially adept, because they engage, listen, and communicate skillfully;
• warm and caring, because they value people most of all;
• normal, because everyone is a writer, so they are no different;
• ordinary people, because they have the same needs and dreams;
• special, because they have found the calling to be artists of words.

I admit that all of these qualities may not be universally true and evident for everyone who writes. Everyone is a unique individual and makes different choices about how they express themselves and experience life. But I can't help but perceive that the act of writing itself must necessarily draw a person more deeply in touch with themselves, as well as with humanity.

The above statements may be the naïve notion of a young writer starting out, but I feel it is true for myself, if for no one else. And this is my motivation for writing.

Alone (written Dec. 5, 2005)

Alone

I am the man who

smiles

while his tears fall,

articulations

my foot taps, dancing

to the music

the beat of my spine

I keep you at a distance

so I can know you, face

to face

Alone, I am with you,

(I love you)

time burns and I am the ashes.

(12/5/2005)

One of my many restless nights in late 2005, I wrote this. Perhaps I'd had a fight with my partner. Perhaps I was just feeling keyed up and was thinking about my life and relationship with him. I know I was working through complex, seemingly contradictory and irreconcilable feelings (antinomy), undeniable life processes, fear of being hurt and causing hurt. I can still feel the experience very closely.

Somewhat ungrammatical and a bit asymmetrical, I probably scratched this out in the dark on the notebook I used to keep beside my bed for my journal. I see the central theme as very hopeful and life-affirming, even through the fear and pain. The last image is like a phoenix, recognizing that we are always constantly being reborn in each instant, a new (existential) self faced by totally new and novel choices: but only if we recognize that power within, the fire that burns. This is inexorable, a fire that doesn't go out but continues. It is passion and creativity, eros/searching out, constant living on the edge, living in the shadow of death. The present self is always already passing away.

I probably was feeling lonely, too, or afraid of being abandoned. My answer: I don't give up. I must not abandon myself.

Older poem: "rain song"

rain song

a faint mur-mur over the othervoice rooms,

trickle driz tric murr

soft song of a nother-world

a world of trickle-drizzle sounds

a world far from drylit place

look through clear-glass shield confirms

trickle driz tric murr

coming down with steadybeat wurrs

softandwet beads up where smooth

few dare go past safeguard doors

look at sky – not much to see

trickle driz tric murr

an ocean of grays above me

patting on the tiles – driz purr

sing until the morning sun come

(3/15/1988)

I wrote this poem for my literature class in the 8th grade. I'd dabbled in poetry starting in the 7th grade, and I was very impressed with a few poets we were reading, like Emily Dickinson, e. e. cummings, and Robert Frost.

I can see some features in this poem that make it like a song, and relate to my style as an artist: parallel, almost strophic structure with a refrain tying the three stanzas together and creating a distinct rhythm; occasional use of rhyme, but not following a strict rhyme scheme; playful running together of words to create image-phrase neologisms ("othervoice", "nother-world", "drylit", etc.). It would be interesting to try to set to music.

To me this poem doesn't relate a lot of meaningful feeling or reflection, just some images and sounds of rain and being inside on a rainy night. I think if it is very significant to me at all now it is mainly because my teachers liked it quite a bit, and I felt very self-conscious to stand out like that. I saw myself as an artist, a poet, but felt very sad at the time because that was not really an identity I felt comfortable in. I really did not want to stand out. I wanted to fit in with my age peers and have lots of friends. Needless to say, adolescence is a challenging time. In my case, I remember how I struggled with a crisis of identity mainly centered on who was I going to try to please, my parents and teachers, or my peers. (At the time it did not occur at all that I could follow my own inner voice.) Just for personal interest, I continued to write an occasional poem through high school, but by about the 11th grade had mostly stopped my creative writing. Some time after college, when I was thrown upon the reality of not caring about the kind of work I'd set myself up for, I started exploring my creative interests again.