I haven't posted much lately, and what I have posted has been brief and lacked meat. The reason for my absence is simply that I wasn't inspired or, to put it more succinctly, I was inspired in the sense of ideas but not in their application. In a word, I was lazy. It happens, and all you can do is work through it, even if the progress is sluggish.
In a previous post, I made mention of having abandoned a couple of them. Well, I've abandoned a couple more. I have two posts I couldn't finish about my trying night at a local writer's festival. I'm puzzled by this because it was an eventful evening and the post should have written itself.
I think my difficulty in completing the post was because almost too much that happened was worth writing about and I just didn't have the energy to tackle it. This development is slightly disconcerting to me, I must admit, and it makes me wonder whats going on with my psyche when I'm suddenly and inexplicably devoid of drive.
I don't know if I'll ever revisit the events of that night, but I will share a portion of it with you. Here is your set up, and it is bare bones, I'm afraid: Me and Spira are at the VFW in Davis Square standing in the back because there are no seats left, listening to local writers speak at the podium.
We weren't there five minutes when I got the vibe from Spira that she was ready to bolt. I knew how she felt; we were listening to the MC, some interpretive dancer slash political activist slash comedian discuss anal sex in a way that was inauthentic to my ears. I sensed she was just trying to be provocative and knew or cared little of what she spoke , which, as you know, is essential when discussing anal sex.
I was attracted to her, though, and found myself equally wanting her and wanting to to be far away from her. I imagined far-fetched ways in which I could bed her without having to hang out with her. In the midst of these imaginings, I peeked in at myself and realized I was behaving like an anachronistic, selfish male. I allowed the backslide in my evolution with the caveat that I would be more conscientious in the future.
The first poet MC Provocateur introduced was tedious to listen to. He was going on and on about his inner demons and was betting that we would be sympathetic to his misery. I, for one, wasn't. The poets that followed weren't much better. I felt like a kid at a boring church service and wanted to flee.
Before I continue, allow me to share my feelings about poetry, if I haven't made them apparent already. When I was in my early teens, I was taken with The Doors, particularly Jim Morrison. One could argue he was my first non-sexual crush. I wanted his looks, his voice, and skill with the pen. I devoured every book I could find on the band and read all of Morrison's poetry, the content of which was as important as the fact that I was reading it. I was so cool, man. Lions in the street and roaming /Dogs in heat, rabid, foaming...
I soon started writing poetry heavily in the vein of Mr. Morrison, the self-professed Lizard King. There's one piece I remember reading to my mother that I'm pretty sure was titled "The Caverns of the Mind". Heavy stuff, but my mother thought my treatise on insanity was about the basic functions of the brain, as if it was a homework assignment I was asking her to peruse. She missed all the pathos! I was offended, but even then, when our relationship was at it's most tempestuous, I gave her a mulligan; she was, in her fashion, only trying to be supportive.
I wasn't discouraged by my mother's reaction -- after all, who wants their mother to dig their poems -- and continued my exploration of the form. I read Baudelaire, Rimbault (both because of Morrison), Thomas, Keats, and Frost. At some point, I had the epiphany that I wasn't really interested in poetry and should probably stop trying to fool myself that I was.
I'm still not, though there are occasions I'll be taken with a poem, usually by one of the masters. The only modern poet I gel with is my friend Kevin. I can read his stuff all day long. And I'm sure there are others out there I'd gel with, but I'm never inspired to look for it, because there's so much shit to wade through in order to get to it.
I was going to riff on my dislike of amateur poetry, and it's self-serving nature, but this post is long enough as it is and I'd like to finally finish one. And also, I don't have the heart to crucify the legions of poets out there, shitty or otherwise. I've known a few in my time, and they were good people. I will offer some advice, however: The locks they put on diaries aren't necessarily there to safeguard against prying eyes. They also serve as a reminder that not everything is meant for public consumption.
So, where was I? Oh, so we were at the VFW and Spira did bail out on me. I had to stay because I was there to hear my friend Loce play a set and didn't want to be rude leaving so soon. Spira lasted about seven minutes before she abandoned me. I was pissed because she refused to stick it out another fifteen minutes until intermission and because she got to leave while I had to stick it out in misery.
It wasn't so bad after she left, though. I kept myself busy thinking about the MC, and my confused feelings for her, while I tuned out the steady drone of the poets. Most of the time she was stationed against the wall on the other side of the room. I made eye contact with her more than once and debated whether I should summon the nerve to approach her or play it safe and avoid the tangled mess I suspected I'd find myself in if I entered into an intimate relationship with her. I played it safe and left by myself when intermission hit.
After I shared an awkward goodbye with Loce -- he felt bad about having me come down when it turned out he was only playing small bits throughout the night -- I stepped out into the frigid night and walked past a small group of older women who were discussing the foul mouth of the MC. "Who talks about anal sex in front of hundreds of people?", one of them asked. "There's a time and a place for that." The implications of those last words unsettled me as I swiftly made my way to my car, trying not to think about that woman having anything to do with anal sex.
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