Getting Back to Getting Out There
I’ve been wanting to resume these posts with more than angst and ennui, yet was stymied about where to start. It’s been some time, and I still write the words I need to write, yet haven’t put any here.
Like with any writing endeavor, one must not consider the temperature of the water, nor the right time of day to dive in, or any of a million other things we can use to rationalize diving back in proper, so I kick things off again this cool November morn with an observation on the creative process poetically framed.
There’s always a place for poetry in my heart. Though rarely publicly unleashed, I find it cleanses the palate before starting the day’s prose. I submit the following verse for your consideration. Something I drafted this morning as I kicked aside cobwebs and prepared to buckle down properly.
Until next time, I bid you, dear reader, adieu!
Rinse and Repeat: A Writer’s Life
Before the words get written
I seek absolution in a coffee cup
(A rite in which I’m not alone)
A vessel I’ve had for decades now
This trinket from another time.
I awake, both fast and slow,
As random prose and random scrawls
Dance digitally before my sleepy eyes
Until the vestiges of night shake free.
I mull. I muse. I shift.
My mind takes flight.
I wonder, wander in my head.
I weep, I shrift, I rage.
Bleed words upon the page.
Transcend when I can, the tropes,
And hope these seas of banalities
Are navigated with ease
And farther shores share their secrets
A voyager who lifts his sword of words
Fighting the entropic pull of reality
Surrounding, distracting, me
Eventually, pulling me back into me
And what really surrounds—
The walls, the desk, the chair, the link of these keys
That clack and clatter with each press
Competing with the outside sounds.
All day within my head
And then it’s off to bed.
I dream the dreams that aren’t quite dreams
To rise and start again.
November 8th, 2014