anybody else keep a real journal? like, a book, that you write in? with a pen, or perhaps a pencil, if permanancy is not quite your style? or am i just antiquated?
in any case, ever read back over this theoretical "real" journal and think, "man, i'm brilliant" or "man, i'm pretty fucked up" or "wow, i sure can't spell" ?
anyway. one from the vaults:
"Once upon a time, I used to write poetry. Yes, i did. I am telling myself this, telling myself not to laugh, for there was a Beauty in it; a kind of strangled Honesty and fanciful grace. Poetry. And now...
"I don't believe in Poetry anymore.
"Or rather, I am blind to its origin.
"It must come forth into life full-fledged and complete, like a mythical figure or... I don't know. I have forsaken my womb and the gestation of such, the Forming... the word, even. Forming. Like Aphrodite from her foaming froth springs up full-figured and grown.
"I don't believe in Poetry in the same way that I tend to turn my back on careful plans... there is a raw and candid spitting-out of Truth and Lie that streams visibly from my ever-open jaws... Like a cartoon, or the Virgin in Fr'Angelico's Annanciation. And i place all my trust- perhaps in jest or a sense of false-pride- in this spontaneous and persistant, perpetual babbling.
"Because- because if nothing else, if not composed nor concise nor controlled- it is all I am, and it is as real as I am.
"And should I stop- should I shut up, like I have many-times advised myself to do sinceI was first delegated the role of the Fool- I would stop. My Self would stop.
"And I am afraid that behind it all, that behind the Unscripted, the muttered discrepencies ... there would be no Poetry at all."
in any case, ever read back over this theoretical "real" journal and think, "man, i'm brilliant" or "man, i'm pretty fucked up" or "wow, i sure can't spell" ?
anyway. one from the vaults:
"Once upon a time, I used to write poetry. Yes, i did. I am telling myself this, telling myself not to laugh, for there was a Beauty in it; a kind of strangled Honesty and fanciful grace. Poetry. And now...
"I don't believe in Poetry anymore.
"Or rather, I am blind to its origin.
"It must come forth into life full-fledged and complete, like a mythical figure or... I don't know. I have forsaken my womb and the gestation of such, the Forming... the word, even. Forming. Like Aphrodite from her foaming froth springs up full-figured and grown.
"I don't believe in Poetry in the same way that I tend to turn my back on careful plans... there is a raw and candid spitting-out of Truth and Lie that streams visibly from my ever-open jaws... Like a cartoon, or the Virgin in Fr'Angelico's Annanciation. And i place all my trust- perhaps in jest or a sense of false-pride- in this spontaneous and persistant, perpetual babbling.
"Because- because if nothing else, if not composed nor concise nor controlled- it is all I am, and it is as real as I am.
"And should I stop- should I shut up, like I have many-times advised myself to do sinceI was first delegated the role of the Fool- I would stop. My Self would stop.
"And I am afraid that behind it all, that behind the Unscripted, the muttered discrepencies ... there would be no Poetry at all."
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
Hey you have good journal material there. i like it.
sometimes when i write poetry, it doesn't really feel like im writing it....go figure.
anyway. have a happy one Hyena.
XOXOX
-L.O.-
You're a much better writer than you seem to give yourself credit for.
Yes, I am this random.