Life as of 6-30-2012

Some people say "Write what you know" is the mantra of all successful writers. Other like to say things about how you won't be producing interesting writing unless you are living an interesting life, getting new experiences all the time. Others say, Fuck it, just write.

I've been living a very interesting life as of late, but it has been keeping me from producing writing at all. I don't think I am the sort of person who writes about what is happening to them. Usually.

Published Essay!

The  editor at the Four Ties Lit Review has been kind enough to publish an essay of mine. Check it out. It's about the how-to and why and of collaborative poetry, one of my favorite passtimes.

"“How Do You Say ‘Pineapple’ in Esperanto? / It Depends on How Many Cowboys are Getting into the Pool” |

The Pleasures of Collaborative Poetry part 1 of 2"

http://fourtieslitreview.com/2012/06/15/273/

Getting there, 

J

Dissociation part 2: The Narrative Strikes Back

continued from part 1

Hoagland asks implicitly, and I wish to ask explicitly, of art that champions "a self-conscious lack of consequence," as much disassociative poetry appears to: What then does it exist to do? If you are trying to write something inconsequential, why even bother to write it? Hoagland asserts that one thing this vein of poetry certainly succeeds at is representing attitude (I think of punk rock here, and DaDa) more than anything else, an act all too common throughout American culture. So by seeking to convey the lack of substance that permeates contemporary culture, perhaps this lack of substance ends up permeating the poetry as well, to its detriment. What, if there is no substance, is the reader to engage with and enjoy?

Attitude and Disassociation, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Intelligibility

So I just read an essay about disassociation in poetry, specifically the urge some poets have to reject narrative, to embrace a disjointed structure that pivots and flails all the way down the page. It was Tony Hoagland's "Fear of Narrative and the Skittery Poem of Our Moment." And my poetry world just fell to pieces.

To Know What I'm Doing

I don't know what I'm doing when I write, usually. I think I am trying to find truths. Not The Truth. I don't believe in The Truth anymore. I believe in feelings, in impressions, in perspectives. Obscure ones, little heavy ones, even big guys that hide in strange places. Post-modernism, you complicate, but with your complication you liberate.

I don't usually know what I'm writing about when I write. I like it that way. As writers, we are told to "write what you know!" by so many others who came before us. And this works for a while. But eventually, like a marathon runner or a fish plugging along upstream, I hit a wall. What can I say that has not been said before? That's when I reach.

First thing that comes to mind, jot it down. No pressure in brainstorming, in drafting--there will be time to murder words later. Plunge into that abyss. I find new things. I find strange things. Old dreams, cobwebbed. Something I once said to my sister that I don't believe anymore. Foghat. A lick from a Miles Davis tune. Matisse. Stamps.

I once went to a panel at a conference where the panelists talked about writing at, or writing through, as opposed to writing about. Writing about is lame. How now, to write through? At, in this scenario, seems easier. I can see my subject, and I approach. Via specificity. Via detail. Via a thimble where I allow connotations to sift through.

But Through? How to write as if I were inside a thing, and not separate from it? Surely this asks a certain kind of mind, from the author, a level of awareness that hinges upon imagination and breathes relentless impressions.

When I abandon trying to sound like I know what I'm doing and allow myself to sound like I'm feeling around in the dark, part exhilaration, part nervous laughter, part stubbing each individual toe, maybe this is through.