SitRep, March 07

A friend had words with me on the weekend about being a bit quiet on my blog. She also pointed out how Silence Fiction Press only seems to have older works on it, which is true - the only updates there are tweaks and edits that I've been passing the lazier hours at work with. The year thus far has been... well... I don't know. January was a bit crazy, February was a mess, and I woke up one early March morning to a house strewn with balloons, half filled plastic cups, a large collection of beer cans and an unopened bottle of tequila that has been giving me looks ever since. Along with the associated hangover was the moment of reflection that having turned one number over on the life endurance scoreboard, I still have a habit of not learning from mistakes and, while being a pretty darn nice guy, I also have a nasty habit of being quite an accomplished asshole when I want to or tire of bullshit (as is February's case - wasn't a fun birthday evening).

The circumstances which made these reflections so pertinent is also the reason I haven't been posting or accomplishing anything creative. All my pen seems to want to create are monuments to self indulgence. Whilst trying to steer away from negative train wrecks of thought into a brighter, happier spring, my writing is being an outlet for all the bile I'm tiptoeing around. I don't really want to paste that up on my blog, so please excuse my reticence. Similarly with my creative efforts, I just can seem to get my head to A) find moments of beauty outside of my stewing mind and B) I can't seem to finish some things that I have. There's a few pieces that I just can't push past a first verse at all and I can't leave them as the single image that they are. I miss the feeling of knowing where an image is going - seeing and feeling what the poem is and using words like charcoal rubbings to reveal its shape on paper. I just can't seem to find the edges of what I'm doing. I've been trying to take the time just to read the work of others and hope that will inspire me to maybe break out of this. Until I can sufficiently repell my self from my writing, I don't know if I can see my work as being audience friendly. The more unpleasant aspects of life are valid topics of poetry, but first I need to put a bit of artistry into it. For now, here is one verse that I do enjoy, but I can't find the feeling I had when I started it. Soon, perhaps...

you
are a feat of repression
a jumblejangle of humours
a long time ago explosion
alone against the blackboard night
poorly wiped
of clouds and a city's gleaming
while faraway heliotropes
are waving their farewell
tiny purple pale
handkerchiefs.

I can't even finish the verse properly. bah.