What Gives You the Write?

What gives you the write?

A few nights ago, I was fortunate enough to be in Park City, Utah as a patron of the Sundance Film Festival. For me, the goal of being a worthy patron is to see every single bit of footage that plays and consume every word spoken by the creators of the cerebral stories and imagery. Following the midnight screening of “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID” [written by Kellie Overbey and directed by Carrie Preston], the festival busses had ceased to run and there were no cabs [or life] in site. I found myself standing outside in an effective blizzard with time to think. What came to mind initially was the festival. It was inspiring to be there and mingle with writers, producers, actors, fellow patrons, locals and directors of the films I adore. As I reflected on being in the midst of such a stimulating assemblage, I experienced an inward confrontation with my ego who asked, rather abrasively, “What gives you the right to regard yourself as a writer?”

There have been isolated instants of pondering in which I have tormented myself and demanded an answer to that very question, “What gives you the right?” I have considered what it really means to even be a writer. I contemplated the possibility that a person is not technically a writer, at least by title, if he or she is not getting paid to do it. I have badgered myself into thinking there is no way I can ever really be a writer without the backing of a framed university degree protected from wrinkles and bent edges by a thick layer of perfectly fitted matte cardboard tightly pressed against the perfectly level, slick finish of a slate glass plate with preventive elements to fend off UV exposure and prolong the array of colorfully engraved accreditations on the lone sheet of paper that is a testament to my ability to attend classes and think critically in all manners of academic discipline for 200K a year or less. I have slandered my work of prose and poetry that either sits inside of an unkempt and forgotten folder on my laptop or appears somewhere I posted it bereft of a publisher’s endorsement.

I am human and am therefore capable of doubting myself [worth / efficacy] at times and have wondered, “What am I even doing here?”

Thankfully, a very real meanness is harbored in the steel cage that is my heart and those moments are fleeting and don’t stagger away from me without a head full of broken teeth, two black eyes and tears that stream down the proverbial bridge of their non-corporeal, metaphorically mashed nose.

So I stood outside the theatre at 2 in the morning getting pelted by chunks of ice lobbed by the apparent sidearm of a low hanging cloud. During the film, I misplaced one of my gloves and I forgot to pee before exiting the theatre and the accumulated snow on the ground outside the theatre was enough for a person to sink into near their waist [or crotch, depending on the size of the person]. A number of patrons hovered around a bus schedule taped to a wooden fence that declared the property line of the theatre’s lot. The patrons mumbled things like, “Oh, this just can’t be right.” They checked their wristwatch, whisked their furry boots through snow gingerly placing each step into an existing footprint carved into the stark white powder at their feet and waited in an impossible queue of other callers hoping to secure a cab. I thought of the barriers the characters in the film I viewed mere moments ago were faced with. I thought about the conflict present for the characters in all of the films I love and it occurred to me, “That’s it. I connect with those characters because I can relate to their misery on some level.” I already knew that, but it was nice to remind myself of the strong connection – ordinary routines often distance a person from that very important bond they hold with their fictional heroes [that is true of me, at least]. In that moment of realization, I knew what I had to do. I puffed out my chest and I actually said, “Fuck it” and trudged out into the street to walk back to my bed where I’d sleep for 4 hours before peeling myself from a mélange of warm and cozy sheets to view ARBITRAGE [written and directed by Nicholas Jarecki].

As I high-stepped through the snow in the infantile hours of morning, I revisited my momentary doubt [likely provoked by the awe-inspiring talent of the festival] about the right I have or do not have to consider myself a writer. I viewed the doubt as my internal critic chirping loudly caused by an overdose of caffeine; we all have one, some more boisterous than others. In response to that little bastard’s prodding, I said this: “What gives me the right – what qualifies me as a writer, you little shit, is this all around me.” I made a sweeping gesture with an extended index finger for dramatic impact as my feet crunched in the snow. I continued, “I live and see and think and absorb and I absolutely dread the thought of one day not being able to write all about it. I don’t do it so that I can cash in and quit living my life. Winning a few contests and getting a script made into a film and getting a book of poems picked up by a publisher is certainly a goal but it’s not why I do it. I do it because I absolutely need to so that I can remain generally sane. Now get back in your hole before I let the motherfucker living behind the steel wall of my heart out again to lick you.”

As I made my way home with sopping wet socks, one of my hands exposed to the elements and a bone chilling gale force gust screaming into my face, I cackled wildly and felt more confident than I have ever felt. I thought of THIS poem by, Charles Bukowski that I read before I could drive legally. I thought, “Buk, it is alive in me just as much now as when I wrote those angst filled poems that probably rhymed and didn’t make any sense from the dank basement of parents’ home when I was 15 and you showed me the way to the keys and I finally spoke through my true voice.”

With that, I was no longer cold or filled with doubt. My only concern was getting to the keys so I could whip out the next line. The need to reach the keys was what drove me to carry on. And that… is what gives me [and you] the right to do this.

All Aboard

People.

Loud
Intense
Caucasian
Brown
Black
Translucent
Transparent
Talkative
Introverted
Outspoken
Annoying
Soothing
Down and out
Wealthy
Special needs
Need to be alone
Need to be looked at
Carrying too much
Living out of luggage
Never settled
Home for good
Happy
Content
Miserable
Stuck
Bloated
Pumped, veins bulging
Windblown
Sleeping on a stone bench at Civic Center station
Flipping through want ads
Flipping through pages of Gibran
Hidden behind glasses
Orthopedic shoes
Sweat pants
Tie and jacket
A real asshole
Someone you seemingly can’t live without
Someone you trust
Someone who always lies
(And believes it)
Vile
Lovely old ladies,
Swinging a cane
Bright orange jacket
A muted scowl
Eyes dousing the floor
Somewhere to be
Content to be here instead
No direction
Everything mapped out
A plan for this
A decision for that
Betrayed
Unbreakable loyalty
Passed out
Against a filmy window.

And I’m only to
Montgomery station
With one more stop to go
Until I step out into the city proper.

Of all the things
San Francisco is,
It surely is not
Bereft
Of a colorful crowd.

Where Have All The Poems Gone?

I recently read Chuck Wendig’s post entitled, “25 Things Writers Should Stop Doing (Right Fucking Now).” It is brilliant, hilarious and above all, exactly what I needed to hear. It resonated with me and it made me realize how much I value my occupation as a writer.

More importantly, the article helped me recognize what I need to start doing, which is to take my writing seriously and stop publishing my poetry on a publicly viewable internet page instead of as an E-Book or entering it into competitions or as a submission to a publication for consideration. That’s not why I wrote it initially but I love it and it poured out of me like a saline tear in response to tragedy, so why not do something with it?

As I hack away at revising the poems I once posted here like a chef grinding the sharp edge of his or her cutlery against a diamond grade sharpening stone, this place will serve its purpose as a Blog. I will provide clues to all 7 of you who might be interested in knowing how to find the poems moving forward. Hopefully they end up in an accessible location such as your bookshelf. Or perhaps they will be buried inside the file system of your Kindle so you’ll have something to do when your flight from wherever to home gets cancelled or delayed for 9 hours and there is no one interesting to observe and the cafes are all closed and the shelves at little pop-up vendor booths are bereft of magazines with Kim Kardashian’s latest appearance at some invite-only celebrity event on the front cover.

I appreciate all of the comments, follows, likes and other forms of adulation I’ve received from those of you I know in person and those of you who I only know as an avatar; some amazing writers have left notes here. That gives me an immeasurable sense of worth. It’s enough to want to see just how far I can fall down the rabbit hole so here’s to taking the blue pill and lunging forward into that dark, scary void that is the world of publishing. Or was it the red pill? Oh, shit – why is the wall pulsating like a human lung inflating with spoiled air and flattening out like a balloon poked with a sewing needle? Damn you, Alice.

[I’m coming for you on the Amazon ranks, Amanda Hocking…]

Basic Needs

Maslow,
That brilliant bastard,
Broke life
Into measurable sections.

One of those categories,
Perhaps the most relevant,
Is his concept of “Basic Needs.”

There is a clearly defined
Set of generic boundaries
That dictate
And outline
The slices of life
Above and below
A basic need.

Some of those very basic of needs include:

A roof.
A plate of food in the evening.
An apple for breakfast.
Some friends to call when you’re down
Or need money –
Enough to pay the electric bill.

I, however, get caught up
On the personal interpretation
Of a “basic need.”

It wasn’t until I lived alone
For a very long time
That I was able to identify
The things I really needed to survive.

It wasn’t much.

But I feel like
There is a sub-category
Worthy
Of honorable mention
That some might refer to
As “Personal Preference.”

At 24, living alone,
I hadn’t established
A personal preference
For things like
What type of soap I would use.

At 24, I was grateful
For a threadbare shred
Of a once solid bar of soap
To scrub my pits and unmentionables.

At 24, I established a strict regimen
Of utilitarian directives.

I recognized that sitting
Was an inevitable pastime
So I acquired a lawn chair
With plastic collapsible legs
And an army fatigue canvas
For my ass and back
To rest on.

It went well
With my army green
Blow-up mattress
And satisfied
My basic need
For furnishings.

Today, many years past,
I showered beneath a waterfall
Of steaming, crystal clear
Hydrating streams of fresh
Mountain water.

As I gazed
At the alluring white fabric
Of an engulfing shower curtain
That cocooned me from the rest of the world,
I was reminded of the last time
I stood in [rather, on]
A claw-foot bathtub.

The drain had become clogged
Likely due
To the discarded hair
Of (a) prior tenant(s).

Rather than stand
In a putrid swamp
Of soapy water
With bits of long hair
That was not mine
Swimming around like water moccasins,
I stood naked on the edges of the tub
And hunkered down
To squeeze beneath the showerhead
And hoped
That I wouldn’t slip in and break my back.

Today,
That is not my lot.

Today I reek of Malin+Goetz
Peppermint shampoo
And eucalyptus extract.

Today my basic need
To be cleansed
Has been satisfied
And I am okay with
My preference
For an indisputably
Higher degree
Of olfactory
Lingering
That will
Undoubtedly
Fall upon those
Who I pass as I follow
My calling to disembark
The number 12 at 40th
And Hollywood
In the pouring rain
To spend my sopping wet evening
With Lady Portlandia.