Must We Ask?
At first she didn't know why her green tendrils grew, devouring
all the pretty little sentences and turns of phraseful scouring...
yet anon the purpose was made clear;
There was none!
All her flailing... left a trailing muck of insincere devotion to prevailing.
She'd never dared to really try, or maybe worse; she did.
And what to show?
how low, how sordid, lost, the depths of gunk she'd flow when in a daring mood.
How crude, how lonely, blithe, the scraps of nonsense she'll exude.
But so she lives, this loving scum, succumbing to the dreaming.
And when she slimes her proudest muck
you'll find her conscious,
When in Roma?
Why write? Writing is better than politics, or drinking, or playing video games on my phone… even though it’s not as nice as the waters of Puglia, or floating through Venezia.
Last night I watched the sun drop quickly behind the mountains west of Firenze and wondered how many others had done the same over these past three thousand years? Leonardo watched it; Machiavelli, Michaelangelo, Dante, Rafael, Galileo, Nightingale… a billion others, and now Huckleberry. A nice list to join.
And tomorrow there is Roma!
I'll never forget; I've written about this before, at the beginning - April 2020, I was so drunk at 5pm, that while cooking eggs I missed the edge of the pan repeatedly and the eggs oozed all over the stove top. I held a margarita in my hand, number four. My roommate comes in at some point. "Do you really only have eggs and champagne in the fridge?" At the time, I still had a bottle of champagne from some celebratory event that had, obviously, been meant to be celebrated earlier in the year. Maybe my birthday. Who really knows. Who really cares.
On the back stoop, I cried and my roommate asked me if I was okay. This was a different time in April 2020, and I wanted to air quote "Okay", like Chris Pratt does in Parks and Recreation. 'Am I "okay"?' I wanted to stay calmly, while clearly detonating. I opened the text from my sister, the one where she told me she would never forgive me. I read that long paragraph text over and over again. I was stuck to it like it had talons, and opening it again and again was like self-harm. I started telling myself it was okay to start drinking at 3pm. I went down to the corner store and bought supplies to make fabulous dinners, no more eggs. As it turns out, you can definitely f*ck up a steak dinner. The margaritas sloshed around in my glass, and I held it up to the endless sun. A toast to the endlessness of loneliness and regret.
So why did you start writing, this prompt asks. Maybe I should get to that. I sat down at my little kitchen table, in my little apartment, in April 2020, and responded to the Challenge of the Month for Prose. I wrote about running from who I am, and at the same time, hoping to run right into my own arms. I begged my sister for forgiveness while lamenting her selfishness. I was at a crossroads, and writing started putting the pain in perspective.
I sat in my little room in my little apartment and got drunk and wept. I didn't have a boyfriend, I was alone in my apartment with only my lame roommate for company. We interacted as little as possible. I started writing copiously; finding Prose, I think, honestly saved me. I ordered my sister wedding gifts from her registry with little thanks. Half my problem was being jealous she had found someone, someone who loved her unconditionally. I would never have that. She had picked her new family over me, to boot. I later told a therapist what I had done to make her so upset, and she laughed. "I was expecting bottles being thrown," she said. What you did was not bad. I open what she said in my head often, like a tab I want to keep permanently in my mental browser.
I started writing because I was in so much pain, I had little choice but to pour it out. I can remember getting my first 'like' on Prose in April 2020, and I felt the need to keep producing content, to keep pouring it out, just like the margaritas that went so smoothly down my throat. Here, I could find redemption. Here, I could forgive myself.
Writing is like one of those exercises for children, where they have to put the correct shape into the correct slot. With writing, I can match what I felt to how I currently feel. It's a catharsis of sorts, putting the pieces together, making sense of the many shapes my mind takes.
I usually write something and then think: wow, slow your roll, girl. This is too much. But maybe that's my allure. I pick up my journal when I feel most like screaming and start writing. I want to be authentic, and just maybe, someone will think: me, too.
A Writer’s Labour
‘I ask of literature precisely those things of which I feel the lack in my own life. I appeal for charity, and implore that literature afford me what I cannot come by in myself…’
I write largely for the reasons why I read, the ones that remain when there’s no need for reason at all, when physical necessity slumbers and worldly concern shrinks away into its corner. After the demands of existing have lessened, the quiet diminution returns to me that mysterious and elusive substance of life, and in the quickness of that wonder does writing find for force its wider speculation.
The business of writing is the one of the ‘self’, of setting free that conundrum to grope about and discover everything it inherits and enjoins. It is the careful study of one’s own stuff, prepared to meet with whatever ugliness and perversion await it, carried on by the hope to find there instead the genius of beauty and passion. It is consciousness come to the page to make its own witness.
To understate its importance—as any attempt at describing it ought to prove—writing is no less than that deliberate act of answering, Who is this thing called ‘I’? And to put the significance beyond doubt, it is by this particular inheritance that we may suppose ourselves alive.
Is there a better way to assert yourself over life than by writing? How these two forces are inextricably bound, that one should give unto the other its natural beginning and receive in return its small enduring end; that living should inspire the will to write, so to bear forth its meaning and belief.
The receipt of living is in the written word, and the proof of that existence in its author. There is no understanding of oneself without writing, as there is no true consciousness without the same. One cannot apply to life for charm and awe if he does not give himself the first address. In a similar manner will he fail the tragedy of death without the requisite knowledge, What is it that dies?
By the intellectual’s point of view there are many equal paths for knowing oneself, art, it would seem to say–and in the case I am making, literature—is not the only road onto that inscription at Delphi. And this would be fine except that I am no intellectual, and little interested in the apparent truth of their methods. I will never be convinced of toothless philosophic quantities for explaining to me something which is already so fully captured in the written tradition and storied works.
Life cannot be measured out in argument or made to conform with reasoned principle precisely because it is the opposite of reason, the immaterial experienced and observed, like a dream that refutes all casts imposed on it by feeble human need for definition.
Life lives in observation, in the lack of good sense that is not afraid to accept the unknown so long as it can first experience and endure it. Behind every instance of good writing is a kind of resignation, a submission to one’s own inconsequence which somewhere permits of just enough honesty to do the writer’s labour: to reach forth and seize from out the lap of madness the purest expression of the self.
to escape a life filled with misery and tragedy.
just to escape this world and for a few seconds I get to be free.
and in those moments I get to be anyone I wish to be.
Why do I write?
I sculpt words through my imagination.
I allow my words to dance on the paper.
I write to collect my thoughts, organise them on paper.
My words flow and take on a mind of themselves.
My muse is the world around me.
Nature offers clues, snippets to fuel my imagination.
I need to get the words out of my head that scream and scream.
I need to soothe the beast within.
I write to banish away the blues and get the negativity on paper, prison it on paper, to keep it out of harms way.
My poetry offers a safety net, a release, a type of therapy.
Writing is like a railway train, thoughts get on, thoughts get off.
The journey begins with the first draft, the raw material.
Along the way words get discarded, words get added until the train reaches it’s destination, the final piece.
I write to give my self a purpose, to prove I have a gift, a passionate, a natural talent in sculpting words on paper.
Let’s Talk About Me
Let's talk about me and why I write.
Let's discuss if I am wrong or right.
Let's talk about fame and mortality.
Excuse the useless formalities.
Let's talk about how I'm feeling so broken.This one shread of hope of a life is my only token.
Let's talk about a life that I wish I could've give.
She would have done it better than I ever did.
Art is Life
My art keeps me
Without the words unfolding,
Without the paint drips,
Without the sound of the flames as they whip through the air around me.
I would be dead.
It sounds melodramatic.
It's not hyperbole.
The worst things are often so
Eventually, suffering gets boring.
My art gives life. It brings vulnerability and validation.
It is the breeze moving ink and paper clouds.
Bringing cool moments of respite and balance.
Art lifts spirits and heals wounds. Our deepest wounds are invisible,
fixed by the softest touch of reassurance,
the quiet nod of shared rage and suffering,
the moment the words sink in and we finally feel like we are not alone,
if only for a moment.
Why I Write
Sometimes I think I have a story to tell, but then I don't
I think I have a message to send, but then it's not interesting enough
Sometimes I think people will understand, but they could never
I think I want someone to know me, but never get close
Sometimes it makes me feel less alone, and maybe it does
It helps me climb
I discovered writing at the bottom of a pit.
Life consists of peaks and valleys. You'll experience your share of high points and low moments. The best metaphor to use depends on your life. Personally, I've been to the stars and I've been in a hole, so deep that there might as well not have been a way out.
I discovered writing in the deepest hole I've ever been in. I was at the worst point of an existential crisis. And I was at the crossroads of hugging the void and accepting my depression or figuring out how to climb. At that point, my thoughts were overwhelming. For a pretty laid-back guy, I could not turn my brain off and enjoy a moment of peace and quiet. The best way to describe it is life had no meaning and I wasn't suicidal, but I was waiting to die constantly. They say life is short, but not for everyone, sometimes this thing is LONG.
One day while I was online I came across some subjective advice that told me to write it all out. Don't scream into a pillow, don't punch a wall, or take it out on anybody. Grab a notebook and take it out on as many pieces of paper as you need.
Write when the thoughts are overwhelming.
Write so that you can see the entire problem.
Write to organize your thoughts.
But most importantly, write to get it all out.
Writing allowed me to begin to understand what I was going through. And figure out what the big questions I needed to answer were. Eventually, I was able to fill up the hole I was in and climb out. Rather than hug the void I was able to close it up for good.
Now, no matter how far life throws me, I can never fall that far again.