I've hit the fantasy skids today and am disheartened and pissed off. At the moment, writing is the last form of distillation I want to apply. But in the misbegotten cache of time it seems to be the only recourse founded in dignity.
It is, in fact, a sulking attempt to resurrect my heart after a life-threatening stoning by the indifference of fate to the fragile promise of happiness. At least in a relational sense. You know. The kind involving bone and blood, touch and sight; the scent of hope with a kiss of heartache.
Normally, I would cry. Or perhaps disappear for a time into the lucratively maddening crush of music and those blessed strains that pull gloom out by the throat until it wails in tune with survival. But there is little normal about me and even less that would imply a standard reaction to a predictable end.
Are you confused yet? Good.
Speaking in abstractions has two benefits: For one thing, it protects the innocent and beguiles the clueless. Secondly, it has profoundly lyrical potential. One can vent and be poetic at the same time. As an inveterate word whore, I can think of nothing else more satisfying.
But I had to relinquish a dream today. Not that I didn't see it coming. Not that I didn't know from the very beginning that there was an ending so radically apparent that it could light up the eyes of the blind.
However, denial can be one of my strong suits when I choose to favor dreams over reality, and as is always the case when facts are not fearlessly acknowledged, denial lets you know you've been had by delivering an even more brutal kick in the ass in the end. Or maybe a kick in the end because you're an ass. Same results: muddled thoughts, cracked sensibilities and chipped optimism.
So, I live and learn; love and live; learn and love. The combination is flawed but, apparently, recurrent.
Fortunately, my best ally is the unwavering application of hope as it can be handily dispensed in every life circumstance. What am I hoping for now? I haven't gotten that far.
My writing is going over well. That is the one hopeful slice of my segmented aspirations. I pick up three or four new people every day who add me to their list of favorites, and I've been told by some of the best and most respected writers on Open Salon that my writing blows them away.
This kind of praise is my drug. It drives me to hit the streets of internal thought and turn linguistic tricks for the paying customers.
Okay. They don't have to pay.
They just have to say, "Good writing, baby." and I'll give them all I've got.
At the moment my laptop pimp is telling me to lay off for the night, so I'm going to comply.
I can't afford to piss him off. He's my sole hookup to the longed-for eventuality of landing in a better day. On a safe street with lots of trees and soft vowels rounding out sentences of higher light and deeper joy. But first I've got to finish paying my dues.
I'll write again tomorrow. It is moving towards one o'clock in the morning. Long past gloaming.
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