Saturday, January 09, 2016

Every mother's son's romantic.

Last year it was 10° outside. Today it is considerably warmer.

Recently I uncovered an old notebook of mine, I kept poems in it, on and off, for a few years, starting in 1985. It was a book for poems. Yes. Do not be afraid, I will not be sharing any of them here.

However, recognizing the book my first instinct was to throw it away but instead I opened it and discovered, yes, what I was expecting, my high school poems, and they were not merely as bad as I had expected them to be, they were much worse.

It's not that the writing is terrible - it is - it's what I am expressing through those words which is so awful. And it's not because I am pathetically trying to express my young adult feelings of romance or jealousy or anger, it's not simply because so much of it is sing-songy, rhimey-whimey doggerel.*

It is because it is entirely false, superficial nonsense. There is nothing there. I am impersonating my idea of what a poem might sound like, I am not in the least bit trying to capture any kind of real emotion, at all. And I know I had emotions, big emotions, but they aren't here.

There is perhaps one actual real emotion, one poem I wrote at one time about one event which, while arguably still very uninteresting writing at least cuts to something real, some deeply held pain I was yearning to express, not pretending but actually presenting.

This book was also used to collect the writing of others, other people's poems that I liked though admittedly most are song lyrics, not poems, and at least two are by Phil Collins which should invalidate the entire exercise right there.

Also, I included poems I found in our high school literary magazine which I liked, one or two even by my brother which, while not necessarily deep are at least well-crafted and fun to read.

And then, at last, are the poems written by one of my girlfriends. There are several of those by this one person. These took me by surprise. Because they are good. They create pictures, brief stories, the impression of a thing without spelling out the exact thing itself. They made me remember something in me which I thought I knew but had forgotten.

What it most shamed me to remember was that she wanted to be a writer. That she was a writer, and a good writer. How can believe you once have loved someone and yet forget a thing like that?

Distance: 4 miles
Avg Pace: 7:44
Duration: 31:00
Route: Forest Hills Loop

1985 Playlist
Everything She Wants - Wham!
Raspberry Beret - Prince And The Revolution
Stop Dead - The Cure
Faron - Prefab Sprout
Close To Me - The Cure
Trouble and Strife - Everything But the Girl
What You Need (Extended Mix) - INXS
Have You Ever Had It Blue (12" Version) - The Style Council

Perhaps my very favorite of the annual playlists, and such a great day out. Considered pushing it further, but there is much, much to do. Alas. Tomorrow, they say, the winter begins.

Temperature: 52°
Climate: warm
Pavement: wet

Yesterday I ate what my son would call a "crap-ton" of fried things for lunch - for both lunches, actually, when you think about it, one at school and another after - I just skipped dinner. But seriously. Bad food, and two beers in one day. That's how that happens.

Yogurt and granola for breakfast and we'll see how well I manage at Karl's birthday party tonight. (sigh)

Weight: 165.5 lbs. (+3.5)
Mood: good

*Redundant, yes. I know that.

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