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2004-12-27 4 2:18 a.m.
"this is my proof for what fire be / my songs'll please the inquiry / my versatile personal flows written & sh-tten, it's like diaries / never tried my job, i confide in God / & almost effortless, simply defy the odds / with the best they placin' / will i be able to succeed & lyrically exceed they expectations?"
reading back over the poem i posted & reading the comments, my anxiety is almost palpable to me. i tried to be so clever, & in doing so, so evasive. the alliteration, the assonance, the line-breaks, the allusions. half conscious & half unconscious, i freaked that poem crazy. overstating emotions, understating what went down. even in the comments; i mean, i wrote the poem early saturday morning, hrs after she'd left the house...but i distanced myself from it, saying i wrote it "a day after confessing" when just saying "i wrote it today" woulda done fine.
the poem is the second i've written in 2 days. i guess what i've been telling myself is true: the moment you clutch the pen back up off the table depends on the moment you put the fear back down on the table...expectations are a mickeyfickey.
times is hard, writing is harder.
my mindstate after taking that class this semester really was "forget it", as far as words go. i mean being so ill-received took much of a toll on the young wordsmith...
Foneticcus: i've actually been thinking abt walking away from the poetry gig...
okaypoet219: poetry, not writing
Foneticcus: yeah. poetry, not writing. taking this wkshp class made me really think abt the institution...& whether i'm fit for it. the boundaries & limitations & expectations i kept bumping up against in my writing...
Foneticcus: it was like, smthg i'd never before gone through...
okaypoet219: i def feel u
okaypoet219: but the politics are always gonna be there
Foneticcus: well...
Foneticcus: for the first time, i really came up against someone (teacher) who, no matter what i did, just didnt seem to *get* my work...& i churned out things that were blowing me away, cuz i didn't expect myself to reach that level. but the style wasn't something he liked...in no way/shape/form.
Foneticcus: which is wild cuz i was writing in the right forms, w/ the right arrangements & technical aspects...
Foneticcus: but the message just whizzed by him, & he was decidedly unimpressed.
Foneticcus: i went crazy abstract & associational (the "father, why have you?" poem) & i went ordinary & pedestrian...i went ghetto...i went emotional...i went every which way, but it just seemed that my mind or at least my material...
Foneticcus: wasnt quite made for the establishment.
okaypoet219: i feel you... the more i get along in this thing, the more resonant & confusing that saying becomes: "write for yourself"
okaypoet219: cuz rarely are u going to "win" an audience
Foneticcus: i'm sayin though...does anybody SURVIVE writing for "themselves" ??
okaypoet219: they're gonna be there & you'll have done yr work to reach them, or they'll be there & they won't feel u...
okaypoet219: u gotta find that niche
...i've just been so weary. i look @ things almost e'day. not writing, but life period. & i get the feeling that i'm just not built for this life-stuff. & i get tired of feeling those emotions, knowing that...for as long as i can remember i've felt that i was (always) chasing life, 2 steps behind, watching it pass rather than living it...& as many breaks or pauses in the program as i get, i'm still behind. still playing catch-up, still frustrated & never quite on the satisfaction tip. contentment ain't even it, i don't think. it's more just a state of balance...like a place where i can say things have been accomplished & aren't teetering precariously.
i walked away w/ 2 A's, 2 B's and a B minus. pretty dope stuff, but thinking back to the grind i had to put in just to scrape w/ that. i mean edge-of-life stuff, & i'm so dubious abt ever being able to go through sum'n like that again. sitting w/ the ministry, leaned back in my chair, crying my eyes out, unable to pray. my jacket sticking to my arm b/c there's blood all on the insides of is. ugly times.
not even my psychiatrist could stick around for my ridiculous shenanigans; i set up appointment after appointment & never made it to one. forgot almost every one & the ones i didn't, i rescheduled & then forgot. eventually she wrote a "i'm falling back" letter & that played even more into my guilt complex.
the expectations others have of me...
pale in comparison to the expectations i have of myself.
i went the whole semester pretty much w/out writing in here for a reason. i was living my life, rather than writing it. & doing an awful job of it.
but by whose standards? the balance b/n what ppl think i should be doing (chasing a career, making grad school moves, setting up internships & other job-type-avenues) and what my conscience tells me i should be doing (helping Jonathan mature, being a rock & support for Patrick, teaching & raising Quentin up to be a leader, being Patrice's guardian angel) is agonizing...the tension b/n the two...
*sigh*
you don't know what you ask of me when you ask me to be your friend, Patrice.
whenever i have doubts abt God. abt his power, abt his ability, abt his sincerity...i just look @ my own life & see personal, practical examples of how he somehow holds the most broken human beings together, in the most patchwork excuses for "life".
the Madlib remix of the Roots' "Don't See Us" is the definition of beauty; Mannie Fresh is on Dave Chapelle levels of hilarity; Foxy Brown's unreleased album is the best thing since the thighmaster.
Merry Christmas, niggas, gringos & e'body in between.
-- Foxy Brown, "Now Lay Me Down To Sleep"