creativity

I may have gotten myself in trouble last night when I told Hans that I've written some beat poetry. He demanded to read it, and I was hard pressed to find any I'd written that were any good in the slightest, as opposed to silly little pieces of girly fancy. Not to say that there is anything wrong with girly fancy, as in this brave new world of feminism we are supposed to support all things created by girl, but well, anyway, they're shit.

Considering I have this blog, and I update it daily (sometimes with serious, thought-provoking pieces, other times not so much), you would think that I like people to read what I write. Here's the deal: no. Not always. Blogging here has made me feel a little more comfortable with sharing my ideas to the world, but only because it forces me to post, edit, reread, edit, and then sit and bear the weight of your criticism (and man, you guys should really just lay off, jeez) without the blind cowardice of, say, handing in a term paper without asking for advice, proofreading, or even making any major revisions myself. Part of this stems from my arrogance that I am, really (and Hans, you haven't help this), a competent and intelligent author. Lots of work is to be done, naturally. Thankfully, I no longer end papers with some sort of all-emcompassing, awe-inspiring, beautiful sentiment as I used to when proper construction of essays was being drilled into my head (that hourglass figure of introductions and conclusions, start big, narrow down, pan out to the big picture again at the end). I would share, but, unfortunately (awww), I have no papers handy.

However, when it comes down to poetry, or any kind of expression that doesn't draw on my stronger powers of analysis and criticism, I feel extremely intimidated by the outside gaze. To get over this, I must practice.

*ahem*

*drums bongos*

You, world.
Big wide and angry
Full of information technology bright lights and jabbering mouths not listening to the soulful tune of a quiet night
I feel your self-importance when I go to a bookstore
And stare at all the books that I'll never have time to read
Not in a million years
Everyone's got an opinion
A rushing gaping mind that longs to fill the void
To get fifteen minutes
To shoot Andy Warhol
To Drown Out the Sorrows
And who's to say you aren't worth it?
Me?
That's a laugh.

"et tu, Brute" your best friend conspires
You've got dark thoughts dark hearts and dark towers
Hidden away is that thing you'd really really really
Like to do, poor little lost soul.

A few of my favorite things can't compare to the struggles and desires of billions of people wandering the streets of this earth thinking what is the meaning what the purpose where is my family how will i feed them when will they notice am i a star do i look good am i the boss of me where is my paycheck does he love me is she cheating what shall i read next when shall i write it do i need to diet am i overweight will i pay extra for that airplane seat am i gay am i a woman or a man do i have aids or cancer or high blood pressure or will i live to see tomorrow when will it end what bomb will destroy me what fatal coup what intense hunger what is the purpose what is the meaning...of this?

You can't stop the flood
It just keeps flowing over and over the bodies of us
The meaning of us time strips away and leaves nothing
It's only a game anyway, survival of the fittest or smartest or quickest you've got to
learn.
Keep up with times or don't you
Pr/lay for the team or don't you
Fight for your rights or don't you
Don't you care?
Make the most of what's living and dying hugs and laughter tears and sorrow do what you want it's ALL tomorrow there is no chance to stop and think you'd better just do it.
While you can.

Love for the children who grow up and learn from us understanding that death is a tool for control for power for bombs for oil.
You can save their lives
but what thoughts do you put in their heads with your
wars
and
Enrons.

My american dream is something much softer something more satisfying
unique and undying
It's not kids and a house in the 'burbs
It's not riches and rides and bitches
It's not total control of a wounded populace
It's not that. none of that. But I can't tell you what it is
because I don't know.

But still I say, you do what you want. You do it now
Your personal freedom isn't a matter of dispute.
As long as you are not gay
or female
or a person of color
or poor.
Have you taken drugs? You're off the list too. Your personal freedom
Is on the line. Someone else is making the decisions, the big bucks
And then hypocritically abusing every rule they've made.
But still, do what you want!
They say, damn the man.
Invent your all-purpose kitchen gizmo, write your pop song, go ahead even, write that book.
I'll read it.