Well, she must be reading my blog--or my mind.
The Muse sent a postcard this weekend--came to me in a dream--the message stayed solvent upon waking.
A new poem.
A few new drafts. (poemlets...)
While not a big deal to most, for me, it's been years since I've thought in lines of poetry.
In fact, at my lowest point in L.A., I went through every last poem I'd written in the last few decades and discarded all that hadn't been published.(House cleaning at its most manic!) I realized I had become a hoarder--of words.
Like a lot of hoarders, I wasn't able to differentiate anymore between the quality and the quantity of the collectibles. Pure tripe was mixed up with aging poetry. Short story bones were rotting on top of full length fiction. Even my cartoons were repetitive. (The lines! The lines!) Everything had become sentimental...
Just because it is hidden under electronic bytes doesn't mean that there isn't a mountain of debris about to crumble. I had grown so accustomed to its smell, I didn't even recognize the stink. What mess...It wasn't until a recent episode of reality t.v., where a long-time hoarder burst into tears, blaming the walking out of her grown daughter (who had suffered the hoard throughout her childhood and only recently gathered the strength of a boyfriend, to escape) on why she "had let things go"...it was abandonment. It was the "other person's fault". It was all life's boogers.
Kaboom! My brain imploded! I was blaming my Muse's vacations on my own growing bad habits. Not all one-liners are worth saving. Metaphors are cheap, if not easy. Pickled poems, though keeping for a while, do have expiration dates. Time to move out. Move on. Clean up. Clear out. Refurbish. If the Muse were to come "home", it would never be to stay. Make room for the visit, but always understand, it would only be temporary.
Well, she isn't dead. Or sickly. Or mad. Only out raising hell with some other writer on the side. She's never pretended to be faithful--though loyalty is another issue. (She is loyal in her way. You gotta respect that.)
Last night, a postcard from the edge of unconsciousness.
Today, a full blown poem.
I will turn it into a pdf. file. (To share.)
Wahoo!
The Muse sent a postcard this weekend--came to me in a dream--the message stayed solvent upon waking.
A new poem.
A few new drafts. (poemlets...)
While not a big deal to most, for me, it's been years since I've thought in lines of poetry.
In fact, at my lowest point in L.A., I went through every last poem I'd written in the last few decades and discarded all that hadn't been published.(House cleaning at its most manic!) I realized I had become a hoarder--of words.
Like a lot of hoarders, I wasn't able to differentiate anymore between the quality and the quantity of the collectibles. Pure tripe was mixed up with aging poetry. Short story bones were rotting on top of full length fiction. Even my cartoons were repetitive. (The lines! The lines!) Everything had become sentimental...
Just because it is hidden under electronic bytes doesn't mean that there isn't a mountain of debris about to crumble. I had grown so accustomed to its smell, I didn't even recognize the stink. What mess...It wasn't until a recent episode of reality t.v., where a long-time hoarder burst into tears, blaming the walking out of her grown daughter (who had suffered the hoard throughout her childhood and only recently gathered the strength of a boyfriend, to escape) on why she "had let things go"...it was abandonment. It was the "other person's fault". It was all life's boogers.
Kaboom! My brain imploded! I was blaming my Muse's vacations on my own growing bad habits. Not all one-liners are worth saving. Metaphors are cheap, if not easy. Pickled poems, though keeping for a while, do have expiration dates. Time to move out. Move on. Clean up. Clear out. Refurbish. If the Muse were to come "home", it would never be to stay. Make room for the visit, but always understand, it would only be temporary.
Well, she isn't dead. Or sickly. Or mad. Only out raising hell with some other writer on the side. She's never pretended to be faithful--though loyalty is another issue. (She is loyal in her way. You gotta respect that.)
Last night, a postcard from the edge of unconsciousness.
Today, a full blown poem.
I will turn it into a pdf. file. (To share.)
Wahoo!
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