Not a Total Downer...I Don't Think...

I am about to venture deeper into the restaurant business and will slowly watch as my personal time for writing dwindles. I MUST keep up with writing though. I don't want to wake up one day, dreading restaurant work, due to not having a creative outlet.


Part of the reason I feel so driven right now is because I am consciously exiting a rough patch. I had no idea I could endure emotional turmoil for so long. Well, actually that's not true. I was seriously tortured for 4 years in the most unpleasant relationship I've ever been in. That relationship was like trying to moisturize with a pile of chalk dust (my own personal hell).


There's a poem I wrote recently...it's about a relationship that suffers from bad timing (a true epidemic). It is in fact an amalgamation of several different people I've loved over the years. I pulled honest material from different places because the reality is, all failed relationships that meant something, end up having the same result - a sense of loss. The hurt all feels the same. Now, of course the length of time one feels the hurt may vary.


The good news about being hurt is the creativity that can spring directly out of that giant pile of emotional shit. I feel so good when I'm pushed to create something good out of something "bad." At the risk of sounding like an overly optimistic asshole (I could feel differently at some point tomorrow...or in an hour), I'm happy to feel pain so that I can be moved to do something worth while. Why must I wait to be in so much pain before I'll DO SOMETHING?! FU FU FU.


Okay, here's the poem:

A Letter to a Broken Heart

You said to me

“If we all held flowers in

the pocket of our breast,

our flowers would be the same:

purple and green carnations,

reflecting the way

we see the world.”

I responded honestly

and said, “I don’t care

for carnation flowers.

They’re cheap, the petals

unevenly cut – too imperfect

for a love like ours.”

You laughed because you

know my mother and I don’t speak
and I’m unable to hold my heart

in one piece – a sieve

that discards the good.

So you did the moonwalk and

we were embarrassed

because we kissed

to Springsteen’s I’m On Fire.

Then you said,

No matter what happens,

I hope we continue to

feel this glow, and

not lose sight of each other’s

brilliance (and our own).”

I thought this meant you

loved me, that you would

(carry me in your heart),

the way Cummings carried his

darling’s heart in his.

The last night we shared a smoke,

our last smoke because it

was time to quit,

you told me about her apologies

how sorry she was, how sorry you are.

I held you anyway because

you weren’t just my love,

but you were also my dear friend.

I know you feel the way I feel,

the only difference is

I do (carry your heart in mine)

and it’s too heavy,

so heavy my heart

it breaks.

-S

 

And so the Gripe BEGINS!

If I hear one more guy who says he’s not sure if he’s ready for marriage (I'm of course speaking generally about all men)...I’m going to take bath salts, morph into a zombie and eat my own face. Do it or don’t. There is nothing more unattractive than a wishy-washy guy. Get married and have some damn kids, or don’t. Do something productive with your life or don’t. All I ask is that you don’t bug me with your unoriginal dilemma. 

That being said, I don't feel much like getting married to anyone these days. I've really been enjoying the freedom of not being emotionally entangled with another human being (no offense to anyone who might be an ex of mine). Of course this outlook could all change once I find myself emotionally compromised for the thousandth time over some poor schmuck. Let the psychotic neuroticism of the female emotions be unleashed! Just kidding...about being a woman and being psychotic. I mean, I probably am neurotic, but hopefully in a funny way...maybe not as funny as Larry David or Woody Allen, but whatever.

A poem

So, since I've been writing a shit ton a poetry, I thought I'd share one. I swear, I've attempted to include humor in my poems and for some reason, they are always dreamy, depressing, and heavy. *sigh* Not sure how to remedy this fact but I will not look upon it as a problem. I can let out the humor in my blog. I think poetry is a place where I can express certain emotions I was never able to express through painting. I needed to let it out and felt stifled by oils and acrylics. Do all people feel this need to have an outlet for their emotions or is it just we the people who have big emotions that need to be put somewhere safe? Who the hell knows. Anyway, here's the poem:

Going Home

Catalina captivates

amidst the vastness of the Pacific.

The mirrored patches of water

ripple like a wrinkled bed sheet,

Its cerulean and pthalo blues

the color of a time I used to paint.

The particles of light dance

like a flurry of snow,

spiritual, godly, holy.

Like the first time I gave myself fully

to him, when it was

making love.

The patterns of land and houses,

roads winding their way to

the white sandy strip of shore.

The mountains fold like soft

hand-made paper

letters written but never sent.

Ascending into a cloudless sky,

streets grow faint.

Mere lines of a hand,

a Greek god’s print upon the

surface of the Earth,

creases left from my pillow

after a deep sleep.

A desert now,

empty and endless.

The plane windows shake

conjuring dreams of death,

serpents and old floor boards,

rotted and damp,

Unstable like a broken heart.

The shadows below are dark,

but not black,

a deep depression.

Like a cancer it cradles me,

cold arms an illusion of

safety and strength.

Long, thin branches of crevices,

As if painted on a canvas.

Succulents enduring,

like the memory of summer,

when it still had the scent of

coconut oil.

The artificial pools of blue appear,

crowded by tiny rooftops.

The same expected decent

into a hopeless grid.

Always waiting for him to change,

as if somehow he could shed his skin

like a desert snake.

Back to Blogging...

It has been a long time since I've posted a blog entry. Basically, I started writing my blog and almost immediately quit. I think I felt a little silly and self indulgent sharing my thoughts with whomever might come across it. Since then, I have taken an interest in writing poetry and short stories.

I don't know that I've been able to continue a craft or a hobby without the approval of others. That's difficult for me to admit. I'd like to think that the last ten years of my painting was purely due to my own passion and motivation for the actual process and respect for the craft. I don't know that I would have continued painting for so long had people not told me I was good at it.

I recently took a class with an English professor who encouraged me to write. Recently, he said something to the effect that you cannot look to others for approval. There are plenty of writers out there who have had personal success because they stood up and believed in their own work while ignoring the criticisms of others. Without experimentation and believing in one's own work, we would not have prose poetry or micro fiction. There would be no Faulkner or Bukowski.

The reason for my returning to blogging was inspired by someone else I know who keeps a blog. I warn anyone before they visit his blog, that you will forever feel guilty for your petty gripes about life, whether it be about unemployment or a broken heart...very few can say they understand true suffering and the ability to maintain a positive outlook on life. His story breaks my heart but also inspires me to be productive while I still have my health. Unfortunately, I'm not sure what material I will have for my blog if I hold my self to the standards of Brian. I still complain about life...and unemployment...and heartache. It's where I get all my material. I am completely immersed in my emotions and finding new ways to let them wash over me. I am human after all and I have only looked at the world through my own eyes. I do try to be a better person. I really do. At least there's that. I try not to have thoughts or say things that would warrant the need for someone to throw me in a hand basket and send me to hell. Then again, sometimes I down right embrace this side of me without remorse.

Please visit Brian at the Help Brian Nice Project

He's an incredible person and artist.