On Living A Poetic Life (Pt. 1)
It’s been a long time since I’ve written something for the internet. I want to say it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything which would be a pseudo-lie but I might still say it. It’s September now by which I mean almost October, a time of year that always fills me with despair and possibility, despair because the change of seasons means necessarily something is over, something is starting.
A few weeks ago I made my body my primary means of production and stopped whoring out my brain mostly although I still do it sometimes so I can buy things, and because I live where I live buying “things” is usually coconut water or bacon egg and cheese sandwiches when I’m hungover, which I can now only sometimes be. Right now, today is my first day off this week, I am sitting at The Bean drinking a coffee smoothie. I don’t really like the way it tastes, the grainy ground coffee bean chunks through the plastic straw, and I don’t feel especially caffeinated.
Basically for the past year and a half I have been trying to find ways of living that allowed me to live Poetry. I have been fairly successful at this though none of my attempts have achieved longevity. I have fluttered from job to job in misery, attended all of the important parties, slept and drank and fucked too much. Because I am “young” this was/is expected of me, maybe, and therefore kind of allowed. Usually when I am allowed to do a thing I do the opposite but not in this case.
Anyway in all of my effort to live Poetry I did write a lot of poems and spend a lot of times with poets but my life felt poetic only in the sense that hurt was the constant, and sadness, and want. Not that I have been sad for forever, no one is, not even Hamlet, or Emily Dickinson. What I’m saying is that maybe Poetry is bad for poetry. That a Poet’s life can be sadness-inducing unless there is ballast built into that life, some shock-absorber, some essential distraction.
Being as I am a poet and lover maybe more of some poets than all poetry it was hard for me to identify as such and once I did I found it difficult to stop. So when I worked in offices I treated it like a residency, like the whole of humanity should cradle me in its arms so that I could indulge in this rude stream of language that runs through me when maybe one should not go into that water all the time.
I am blissfully tired, too tired to be sad, maybe this is what people mean when they say words like “happiness” or “satisfaction.” In this coffee shop everyone sits on couches and at communal tables, listening to soft-rock 70s like family, except no one makes eye contact or speaks. That’s a metaphor for Poetry. It’s also my present reality. Soon I will get up from this couch, walk down the street. It will be about eight degrees colder than I’d like it to be. On my way home I will probably get more coffee meaning that my entire day’s energy will have come from protein powders and caffeine. I think this must mean something but I’m not sure what it means. Another metaphor for Poetry is being too obsessed with meaning.