poetry, prosetry

with the demented enthusiasm of full-fledged existence

I am the monster lurking on the hillside, chased by something even more terrible. I am watching myself be the terrified monster. I am the mirror that sees clearly but refuses the truth. I am the shadow behind thin curtains at night, lenient light from an unseen source playing on the softly undulating folds, imagining essences, routinely absurd. I am the reality harassing works of art, browbeating them into mere signs.

If only I were the beauty in the things I see and touch and hear and smell and want. I am what’s left of my sense of humor.


15 thoughts on “with the demented enthusiasm of full-fledged existence

  1. It’s only natural, that we all battle ourselves, shifting between, swaying to and from, the opposite sides of our personalities, and, sometimes, it gets, real hard, to find that balancing point, and that, is when the symptoms of mental illnesses tend to surface, but we all somehow, manage ourselves, best as we can…

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    • I wonder sometimes (clearly), and sometimes when I wonder all I need is for someone else to think so, just as you have. Thank you for that, thank you very much.


      • I know I’m not the only one, I know that, but I am one of many who thinks this of you and even if I weren’t having some who do, means everything. Quality over quantity but ultimately I think if more read your work you’d be surprised how well it was received. It is NOT in vain.

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      • I completely agree that having some out there who enjoy my work means everything. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but the effect of even the simplest reaction can be utterly sublime. I do feel deep down that I’m on to a little something here with the things I make, and I try not to question that too much. The only thing to do is keep trying to spread it around and around. There is nothing like the feeling when it sticks with someone, and it’s exciting to imagine others out there, unknown and silent, whose moment was somehow affected by a piece of heart or mind I put into words. To affect the quality of the day, as (I think) Thoreau said.


      • You’re right. If something you create sticks with someone then already it is justified and even before, there are rare times you may just see the value in something you write even if others do not. I wish I felt that more ! As it makes writing a little easier without the self doubt! You have a style that is unique and very much your own, a book of those kinds of observations, be they prose or poetry it doesn’t matter it just works

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      • I think it’s time I collect a nice big batch of them together for sending around to see who might be interested in putting it in print. I wish I felt that value more too. Or more consistently. As in all the time, no matter how few people react to my posts or how many rejections I get from magazines, etc. There’s always a moment, usually brief, of some despair when the response seems tepid. But it dissipates like smoke


      • I understand. Being an artist is part thankless and part merciless because you are rejected and put down and it takes a thick hide which I certainly don’t have to weather it. But I suspect you couldn’t be anything but who you are and there’s a reason for that, and so if you are an artist then you have no choice other than to bury your light under a bushel and you’re not allowed to do that 🙂 It can be withering. But maybe us all feeling that way at one point or another helps us feel we can keep enduring it and as long as we remember we are who we are not who others say we are, then we can remain true to the road we’re on. It is there for a reason. We’re on it for a reason. Those words don’t come out of the clear blue.

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      • I couldn’t agree more, and your words happen to be especially pertinent to how I feel today. I feel at home in my work, even when it’s a struggle, and it’s almost as if that struggle is defining. Not necessarily noble, just substantive. I wonder if you feel this way too. As far as the rest of my life—the part where I earn a living in jobs I’d be thrilled to walk away from—I’ve felt a different kind of struggle, the kind of struggle experienced by a person who feels out of place and wasted. That struggle has often had the opposite effect: developing some sense of an inadequacy that has felt like an indictment of my personhood and abilities, while any gifts I may have are on hold, suppressed, or, worse, products of self-delusion. But then I return to my work and I find myself again, I feel at home. I suspect you may be familiar with this sort of experience, but I don’t want to presume…


      • Go ahead and presume because you’re totally right. I have long felt that I did not connect with or even understand what made others tick ‘out there’ and I could not find any succor or value to that existence it would feel wrong to me, and that’s why people find their meaning in art, because it represents for them something real versus the world which can be alienating and hostile and just feel all wrong like we’re a cuckoo placed in the wrong nest. I feel that a lot sometimes I wish I didn’t as it would make for an easier life but you can’t choose those things. If you are someone who will beg the question then you can’t be in the vanilla herd you just have to find your strange. I suspect we have and it’s a case of sticking at it through the self sabotage moments and all the shit the world throws when it doesn’t understand what you need. Right?

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      • Absolutely right. Baldwin said the artist reminds us what reality is. I am not so bold and brash as to associate myself with him, but I do completely agree with his pronouncement. I also completely agree with (and quite enjoy) what you said about being one who begs the question and finding your strange. The vanilla herd is dull dull dull. And LARGE


      • Because for every person who has the guts to ‘do it’ there are many who talk themselves out of it and they are the frustrated ones who could be artists but sit on the sidelines of their lives. That’s why I admire anyone who just ‘does it’ like you. It isn’t easy.

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