After having someone mention Charles Bukowski in conversation, I went to look him up, and found out from Wikipedia that his gravestone says, "Don’t Try", which was ultimately his philosophy about writing — wait for it to come to you.
I’ve put something I was writing on hold because I found myself unhappy with how it was going — I’ve always had a weakness at editing, a preference for whatever came out originally despite being something with which I’m not quite satisfied. I realize that it leads to the disclaimers I’ll throw out there sometimes.
I think it’s really hampering me right now. I’ve been stuck and scared to move on and not come back to it. Mr. Bukowski might tell me to wait, or that I didn’t wait long enough… but I need to get started soon. I’m glad that it’s not long before my workshop starts, but even that is too far out for me now. I’ve historically tended towards two topics, idolatry of women or the need for change. Women are either on a pedestal or they’ve ripped my heart out in some way. They’re often the reason for change, whether it’s coming or going. I need to explore new things, play with ideas more. One of the things that inspired me at last week’s The Inspired Word reading was the way that the artists took ownership of absurdity. Poetry, like comedy, often uses absurdity to attack truth from an unexpected angle, which in turn allows the reader or listener to really feel a responsibility for having arrived there. That little bit of a jump the "consumer" adds, even if only following where led, adds to self-satisfaction and ultimately a happier experience than simply being told.
I’ve been listening to Regina Spektor a lot lately because she seems to be a queen of absurdity in quite a funky way. I wonder, though, how limited I am by my conception of what’s possible or what’s normal for a human voice. I think that I need to think about how to break down those guard rails as well.
But I’ve also come to the conclusion that it doesn’t have to be good, that I don’t have to wait it out. I need to set the table for providence. I need to experiment. I need useful practice.
Thinking of this reminds me of something I wrote when completely blocked when trying to write anything emotional. I wrote it at an open mic at the college bar (sober, underage), with the goal of being cheesy, which I accomplished. It’ll usually get a chuckle, though I think that the delivery might be responsible for that.
I’ve seen the man in green, hair trimmed neat and shaven clean.
I’ve seen the boy in blue. HIs jeans are old, his sneakers new.
I’ve seen the woman in red, with a beautiful body and an OK head.
I’ve seen the girl in yellow who went to Sweden and became a fellow.
I’ve been to hell and I’ve never been back, I guess that makes me the man in black.
Not much, but it still gives me a chuckle 15 years later, and actually came right before I got out some things of which I was quite proud. I’d planned for the subway ride home tonight to be a chance to find characters, and when I sat down I thought I’d have a good collection to observe, but then I became obsessed with the woman I was sitting next to precisely because of the way that she was essentially hiding her face from me. Despite being fairly blind uncorrected, my field of vision is fine, so I could tell that even if I looked more than a few degrees left of straight ahead, she’d turn her head away from me, covering her face with her dark hair. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but observing a shiny surface directly across the train car, and remembering some high school physics about the angle of incidence of light upon a reflective surface, I confirmed that she would look at me any time that she thought I couldn’t see her, but hid her face when she thought I could, or was possibly going to try to.
Super shy? Did she think I was Jack Bauer? Just psycho?
Maybe there’s a story somewhere in there… but I’m almost tempted to simply sleep with a nicotine patch on. I’ve had some of the most surreal dreams like that — what I have to assume is similar to a psychadelic experience. It’s time to start putting pen to paper, even if it’s crap. If it’s crap, I’ll get something upon which to practice editing.
