literary dysfunction

It surprises me how hard it is to write a column.  I got the introductory one out of the way and I thought I had momentum, I thought I could start churning them out, I thought I’d have at least one for every month.  It’s been over a month since I posted “Out of the Dry Docks.”  I’m currently on my fourth restart, with only 254 words down so far. 

At first it was difficult to just pin down something specific to write about.  Poetry is a very broad subject, there are so many things to say about it, but it’s also a very daunting subject, even (or especially) for those who write poems.

Eventually, with the help of my friend Patrick, I found a topic.  Something to write about that doesn’t need filler like supermarket hamburgers.  Then, of course, I have to get the grunt work, the research, out of the way. 

I’m lazy, it is not in my nature to be productive.  Right now, I should be working on the column, it’s open in another window right now.  I was working on it, but I let myself get distracted as I do.  Hopefully I’ll find some journalism viagra and get it up soon.

The closing of a decade

Like most teenagers, I held some absurd notion of a division between my adolescence and the real world.  Turning twenty didn’t trigger any fireworks, any obvious signs that I had begun my so called real life.  It’s a quant idea that a lot of people like to have, though some are forced to face the truth sooner than the others.

College graduation is the silently agreed upon demarcation of adolescence and adulthood, for those with that privilege.   Obviously there are many more who forgo college, whether because they’re having a child, their family needs help, or they’re ill.  Of course, some choose to just head straight to the work force, while others, long after college, continue to act like the asshole we all knew in high school.

It’s hard to let go of the delusion of that youthful cushion.  I still feel like that kid in school, I still think I’m growing.  I didn’t want to realize none of that was true anymore.  Even though I’m still floundering to find my own identity, I realize I’m past youthful exceptions, I no longer have any metaphorical shoes to grow into (or real ones for that matter, which I prefer, size 14 is hard to shop for), I need to contribute, I need to shoulder some of that long rebuked responsibility.  And while I can still lean on my real cane, I have to stop grasping at the clutch of ignorance and illness.

Now I know all that sound like the usual angst and depression of a teenager, and it sounds like I think there isn’t anything good about growing older and expecting more of yourself.  That isn’t true, I think it’s much easier for people to see those things that make them excited for their next birthday themselves, while the more serious ramifications tend to linger in the background like smoke.

Event Horizon

I always seem to overwhelm myself.  I went to the library today to gather up some more research materials, and upon finding the poetry and literary criticism sections I took book after book from the shelves.  I was like Gollum in a Mordor jewelry store.

I ended up carrying a stack of books as tall as my torso to a table to sort through them, and try to whittle the number down to something manageable.  The fact that the library is only seven or so miles from my house, and that I can return for other books later never found its way to my conscious mind.

So I ended up leaving with seven large books, all the while wishing I had a whole shopping cart full.  My eyes are bigger than my belly, though, and I know I won’t be able to digest nearly enough of the material before the due date.  Hopefully I’ll remember to take them back when they’re due this time, I’ve paid enough late fees, I don’t want to cough up five bucks before I can renew some of these books like I know I will need to.

And despite all this, despite wanting more books, despite wanting to read enough within these thirty days I’m given, I’ve decided to wait until to tomorrow to start the reading.  My excuse?  Fresh eyes, fresh mind, and other similar bullshit. 

If I could learn a little moderation, I think my procrastination wouldn’t be half as bad as it has been.  I constantly stack too many things in front of myself at one time, always wanting to get everything done at once.  Maybe I’ll learn to build multiple, small hurtles soon, instead of the massive singularities that usually crush my spirits.

Technorati Tags: Poetry,A Pilgrimage Through Poetry,R. Kyle Norris,Research,moderation,black holes

Look It Up

I recently started researching for my Xenith column.  I mean, when the idea for the column was first offered to me, I started doing some research, but it wasn’t much.  I went to the library, checked out a few books, read a few essays and poems and forgot about the books until they were two months overdue. 

Now I’m really researching, looking through every poetry anthology and literary magazine I own.  I dug up my parent’s copies of the Harvard Classics, which have now enthralled me.  I’m constantly looking for articles on the internet, I’m returning to the library soon, this time to actually use more than a smidgen of the thoughts contained in the pages I borrow.

I’m constantly writing down thoughts on the Springpad app on my phone, I have sticky notes stuck to the border of my monitor.  All of this research cause a resurgence interest in writing, for both new ideas and the improvement of old. 

I’m thinking of publication again, and now I actually want to take my time on things.  I want to fill in the background and feel out the idea before I move beyond the initial Aha! moment.  Yes, often when inspiration strikes you go beyond the idea and begin construction.  I did that when I recently started writing a novel.  Now I’m using the initial passionate pages along with long thought out notes to construct a detailed outline, so as to guide the fervor that is bubbling up.

All of this work has left non-research books gathering dust.  So I’m still finding a grip on this newly rekindled flame, and I need achieve balance lest the fire go out or burn me.  I’m sure being sick and stuck in the house with nothing else to do hasn’t helped, and as I get better and am able to get out and do things, that balance should be easier to attain.

Also, I quit smoking.  So fuck you RJReynolds, I’m reclaiming my lungs.  And about fifteen hundred bucks or more a year.

I look forward to my coming literary adventures.

finally, an office

My office is a go, right now it only houses my computer and desk, but it’s a start.  I plan to organize both my bedroom and this room over the coming week.  Once I get all my books, papers, files, and other (random) things sorted, I portend this room will see a lot of writing.

Eventually, I hope to do more here.  I want to change its atmosphere into something comfortable and conducive to the creative process.  By this I don’t mean I want to sit/lay in a massage chair in silk pajamas with my hands half-heartedly resting on a velvet keyboard.  No, I mean I want to look around this room and find inspiration to write, and comfort when I can’t.  I want to push this place and have it push back.

I know this anthropomorphizing  surpasses hyperbole, but sometimes you need things to be hyperbolic.  I know I do.  Sometimes it’s too hard to stomp through the murky mundane, sometimes that carrot in front isn’t enough, so you must make it enough, you must see your personal Eldorado ahead.  That is what I intend to do, head towards that gold, one foot in front of the other.

A day

The reinvention of self is something I've wanted and attempted many times. What starts as a growing balloon of enthusiasm, pushing through those first and smaller obstacles, soon deflates. It's sadder than the violent pop expected.

Despite this, I'm once again picking up the eraser and the pencil, trying to change the lines of my face. No balloons this time, I'm taking small steps. I'm swallowing the disappointment that rises when I only half complete a task.
This time there isn't a tomorrow when I can finish. I let everything blend into one unyielding day. A day to deal with my pain and pestilence, a day to do both the literal and metaphorical laundry, a day to prepare my office and all the tools to work with, a day to collect my thoughts and look through them with my ego, and most importantly, a day to sit down with my soul, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, sighing with a new contentment. Then there's night, there's rest.

I make no promises to you nor myself. While I know I will accomplish my goals, I do not know when. It is that idea that stumped me so many times before. I have always expected quick and dramatic change, and so I give up when I see the drudgery I must trudge through.

It's going to be a long day.

And we're off

Like a legless dog in a race I get to watch the progress of others, as well as some mud in my face. My computer is still an issue, writing longhand isn't an option: my hand cramps too easily.
Once I get an office set up, along with a monitor to replace my laptop's broken screen. So, my laptop will now be a desktop, on a desktop, though on top of which desk I don't know. The desk currently wasting space in my room I received many, many Christmases ago, when my legs were much, much shorter.
Once I fix my computer and cure my malaise, I will sprout some legs for the race.

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