“The true poet dreams being awake. He is not possessed by his subject, but has dominion over it.”
Thursday, April 9th, 2009
grilled cheese, fries, red velvet cake and Merlot for breakfast.
I have two posts written and nearly ready to go next to this one. There’s just nothing in them, they’re full of buttercream. I’d like to think I’ve grown past faking it. But maybe not. As a good friend once wrote: “fake it till your dreams come true.” Part of me has a sinking feeling that said dreams will be sitting on the bench a long time while their half-formed shells play the court [jester].
I haven’t felt like connecting at all lately. Not on the internet, not personally, not creatively. I haven’t felt a strong connection with any of my muses in the last few months; instead I’ve been using fucked up medical insurance policies and missed prescription refills as creative fodder. Did you know it can cost in upwards of $1200 a month to stay “sane?” I didn’t until last Monday.
I’ve drowned myself in reading about manic-depression. Books like Touched With Fire: Manic-Depression and the Artistic Temperament and An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Dr. Kay Jamison and Manic-Depressive Insanity and Paranoia by Dr. Emil Kraepelin (who’s considered to be the founder of contemporary scientific psychiatry, and one of the first to truly commentate on manic-depression as a legitimate disease). To break from the science-speak, I’ve been re-reading certain classics under scrutiny, namely The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (duh) and The Voyage Out by Virgina Woolf, with breaks in between to satisfy the Taurus in me with The Hedonism Handbook.
You probably don’t give a shit about my reading list, but there you have it. The stones in my pockets keeping me under the ocean and away from humanity. There’s a war being waged up on shore, and I’m content to listen to it crumble from down here.
To get back to poetry-related things, I was in Birmingham, Alabama recently to see Amanda Palmer. The trip was part of a series I’ve yet to discuss on here, which I’m tentatively calling “The Art of the Oxymoronic Jetset.” (Or “A Pauper’s Jetset?” Regardless, stay tuned for details.) While I was waiting for room service to grace me with a glass of much needed Merlot and grilled cheese, the editor for The Great American Poetry Show, Larry Ziman, called me unexpectedly. To paraphrase, for length:
(click the cut to read the conversation)
