A Writer's notebook, Day One-Hundred-Fifty
Today has been a rather productive one, and I feel very much enthused at the moment. First, I wrote a flash fiction piece that I am thinking might be valid, if I do a bit more work on it. It is something that grew from a silly and surreal conversation that I had with an acquaintance about computers. She mentioned some technical problems in a way that personified the machine a bit, and I took that to suggest that she shouldn't be complaining or they might take umbrage. That was the gist of the exchange, though it went on somewhat more between us. This led me to think of a small idea for a piece about something in that vein, and it came out as a tiny little pearl of fiction that I think might have be doing something interesting.
More significantly, I also wrote a rather difficult poem about a personal experience that I don't really speak about, and which is really complicated to discuss, generally. In high school, another boy took a bit of bullying too far and exposed himself to me, shoving his dick in my face and telling me to blow him. At the time, he and several others had me pinned to a bench, but I got away somehow, though I don't really recall the details. I don't even recall most of those who were present, honestly. I did not discuss this at all until more than ten years after it first occurred and I couldn't even process the idea that it was a significant thing for me.
To make the issue more difficult, the person that did this to me is now dead, having committed suicide, and I saw a great many others from my school writing about their loss. It is not, really, the first time that a person I've had negative feelings about died, but it is the first that reaches this level. In truth, I didn't really know how to feel about a lot of it, and I still do not, but I think being able to accept it as something real and to write about is important for me. In truth, I had a bit of fear at doing so, and I felt somewhat conflicted seeing as the person involved is dead, but it had to come out, and the feeling that I have of fear surrounding that, and even surrounding mentioning this here on my blog, is something that I don't want to run from.
It is a very difficult thing to confront, and I am not usual a poet who speaks about my own experiences in what I write. To be clear, I'm not against such work, but it is not generally where my ideas come from. Somehow, though, this had to come out, and I know that it will give me a relief when I let myself reflect upon it.
Beyond the specifics of having tackled something that feels very important to me to have released, I also am feeling very glad to have written a poem that is not merely a list. It is not the most musical piece I've ever crafted, as the subject matter is so potent ,I wanted to handle it with a certain care and distance which lent itself to a certain sort of language and a certain type of austere musicality. I think it probably has more going on than I am thinking, though, as I don't always recognize when the language is doing that work. If I am in the zone, it just happens.
I feel very much that I did connect back to that feeling of being in the place for writing a poem, and I recognize it as different than what I expected, which seems significant and positive. It is not so much the ability to see poems, but the concentration on the desire to create poetry with an openness and a certain energetic enthusiasm. It feels good to reconnect with that, though at the moment I am still largely feeling my stomach doing flops as I consider the things that I am acknowledging in this work. When I say that I didn't talk about this, I don't believe even my mother knows what occurred. Talking about it at all is making me feel very vulnerable, and I trust that I will feel better when I let this go and know that I've done it already. In part, that is why I wanted to mention it here, so that I can't just take it back again and erase what I have written. It is too easy to not acknowledge that I need to be open about this for my own good if not any other reason, and that the very fear and vulnerability I am feeling is something legitimate that I shouldn't ignore.
I don't want this to become a major part of my writing, really, but it was something that I needed to write about, and I think that putting myself into the situation, these past few days, of pushing myself to keep at writing poetry made me face that truth. In the end, though, I have many things to write about, and while I am not hiding from this, it would be equally wrong to make it too large an aspect of myself. It is something that certainly shaped and still shapes me, and I am largely ignorant as to how, but it is also not something that is a central part of me, or which I think about even daily. To make it a central part of my writing or present as something that has crafted my identity entirely would be as dishonest to myself as not writing about it would be.
In the end, I think of this as one poem, and one that reflects a hard truth about my own life. I have had poetry teachers discuss the need to write such poems, and have had a few admit their own failure in such efforts. I am really glad to have gone into that place tonight, and I feel that the work will reward me for doing so, not only in terms of that direct result, but also in the sense I feel of an unblocking that comes from opening up in such a way.
More significantly, I also wrote a rather difficult poem about a personal experience that I don't really speak about, and which is really complicated to discuss, generally. In high school, another boy took a bit of bullying too far and exposed himself to me, shoving his dick in my face and telling me to blow him. At the time, he and several others had me pinned to a bench, but I got away somehow, though I don't really recall the details. I don't even recall most of those who were present, honestly. I did not discuss this at all until more than ten years after it first occurred and I couldn't even process the idea that it was a significant thing for me.
To make the issue more difficult, the person that did this to me is now dead, having committed suicide, and I saw a great many others from my school writing about their loss. It is not, really, the first time that a person I've had negative feelings about died, but it is the first that reaches this level. In truth, I didn't really know how to feel about a lot of it, and I still do not, but I think being able to accept it as something real and to write about is important for me. In truth, I had a bit of fear at doing so, and I felt somewhat conflicted seeing as the person involved is dead, but it had to come out, and the feeling that I have of fear surrounding that, and even surrounding mentioning this here on my blog, is something that I don't want to run from.
It is a very difficult thing to confront, and I am not usual a poet who speaks about my own experiences in what I write. To be clear, I'm not against such work, but it is not generally where my ideas come from. Somehow, though, this had to come out, and I know that it will give me a relief when I let myself reflect upon it.
Beyond the specifics of having tackled something that feels very important to me to have released, I also am feeling very glad to have written a poem that is not merely a list. It is not the most musical piece I've ever crafted, as the subject matter is so potent ,I wanted to handle it with a certain care and distance which lent itself to a certain sort of language and a certain type of austere musicality. I think it probably has more going on than I am thinking, though, as I don't always recognize when the language is doing that work. If I am in the zone, it just happens.
I feel very much that I did connect back to that feeling of being in the place for writing a poem, and I recognize it as different than what I expected, which seems significant and positive. It is not so much the ability to see poems, but the concentration on the desire to create poetry with an openness and a certain energetic enthusiasm. It feels good to reconnect with that, though at the moment I am still largely feeling my stomach doing flops as I consider the things that I am acknowledging in this work. When I say that I didn't talk about this, I don't believe even my mother knows what occurred. Talking about it at all is making me feel very vulnerable, and I trust that I will feel better when I let this go and know that I've done it already. In part, that is why I wanted to mention it here, so that I can't just take it back again and erase what I have written. It is too easy to not acknowledge that I need to be open about this for my own good if not any other reason, and that the very fear and vulnerability I am feeling is something legitimate that I shouldn't ignore.
I don't want this to become a major part of my writing, really, but it was something that I needed to write about, and I think that putting myself into the situation, these past few days, of pushing myself to keep at writing poetry made me face that truth. In the end, though, I have many things to write about, and while I am not hiding from this, it would be equally wrong to make it too large an aspect of myself. It is something that certainly shaped and still shapes me, and I am largely ignorant as to how, but it is also not something that is a central part of me, or which I think about even daily. To make it a central part of my writing or present as something that has crafted my identity entirely would be as dishonest to myself as not writing about it would be.
In the end, I think of this as one poem, and one that reflects a hard truth about my own life. I have had poetry teachers discuss the need to write such poems, and have had a few admit their own failure in such efforts. I am really glad to have gone into that place tonight, and I feel that the work will reward me for doing so, not only in terms of that direct result, but also in the sense I feel of an unblocking that comes from opening up in such a way.
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