I’m a writer. So I naturally attempt to create an arc. It’s not thought out though it is an unconscious expectation. So even in writing these Blagues I suppose I feel a responsibility to make them complete nuggets. For them to have a beginning, middle and end. But screw that. At least I try to.
Sometimes I think of life in terms of what I would call my autobiography or my one man show or my pithy epitath, expressing a need to sum myself up in a clever capsule phrase. But I try to break through of these pre-sets in my brain, especially here where I should just be letting the words flow any which way. I wish myself luck with that.
I have thought about going back to school. Stella just finished year three of a masters degree. And (I wonder if) I feel the need to have some kind of like credentials. The fact is I hated school. I loved learning but I hated school. I loathed the way I had to fasten my assymentry into stiff new jeans and acceptable check or stripe shirts and footwear. Even new sneakers are uncomfortable. I hated the greasy patina of myself after a day at school where you had to hold in your bowel movments because there were no doors on the toilets in the boys room. Why were there no doors on the toilets in the boys rooms? I don’t recall ever seeing another boy use one of those stalls. At least where I grew up, we bred entire generations of constipated, divurticular males. Why? What was the reasoning? Boys don’t need to not be looked at by a room full of othe boys while they take a shit? I don’t get it…
But, hey, look good for me. I didn’t care about the arc, the titlte, the beginning, middle and end; I just wrote in any ol’ direction. But you see what I did there? I had to bring it back. Why did I have to bring it back. Why must a have a theme or a title. Such are the grooves in my brain I suppose. Though I do want to get to the poetry. Oh, that’s what I was saying, picking up another thematic thread: I thought I should get some kind of masters degree. In my fantasy these past years I thought I’d get a masters in some concentration of my own creation like: Sacred Spaces: Theater and Spirituality, since it combines much of my collective interest and industry. But I keep being drawn (back) to poetry. I make that parenthetical nod because I do think that poetry underlies everything. I do think it is a sort of primal cosmic language. I think that because when I strip away all the external and internal noise it’s what I hear. Yes the Libra hears the lyrical music of the spheres in words that float or breeze or unfurl in the everlasting air.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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