the day is gray
and rainy
and my capacity sits at the precipice
of being awake and creative enough
to write and read and work and create
and all those good things,
and that of succumbing to the drear
of the clouds and rain and outside
drain my creativity
until my body floats like vapor
up to the sky
[[[to fly?]]]
emotions
swirling
around
scattered and unfounded
(at least half of them)
~~~
do i want to
do work
then
be creative,
or can i
somehow
find the creativity
inside the work?
~~~
all the possibilities
and none of the
decision-making confidence.
~~~
all?
or none?
or some?
now?
or later?
or combine?
or alone?
or is it even worth it?
~~~
i wish i remembered what it was like
to find my path of thought
through
the poetry at my fingertips
instead of
halting
phrases
catching
words
tiny poems
barely scratching the surface
of all that’s underneath
this rainbow hair…
~~~
if i trace the keyboard
gently
will it make the words come easier?
will the emotions be quantifiable
and able to be categorized
and boxed up
and shipped out
to future me
to deal with
in a different [head]space?
even the poem
i wrote
about having trouble
writing poems
this morning
feels so cheap
and distant
and alien
to what is actually happening in my brain
at the moment
so i guess
i’ll write
this tiny diatribe
about
‘blah’ness
and ‘meh’ness
and the ‘blargh’ that i’ve been
chanting in my head
all morning
and see
where this
all takes me…
i wish i could have the discipline
of folks who literally write every day,
who get up at the exact same time
and write for the exact same amount of hours
and never miss a day
in their 30, 40, 60, 90-year career
i wish i could write/live like i’m running out of time
i think the problem is i do.
but i feel it in the depths of my skin/soul/teeth
where the reminder just brings me to my knees
i see the futility
of years
of words
of works
and it petrifies
and paralyzes
every piece of my creativity
so where’s my legacy?
my brain is not awake yet,
nor is my body, really,
and the first sip of coffee is cheap
when
you know you could sleep for hours
even with the whole mug in your bloodstream,
and i keep getting distracted by tiny chores
which probably could/should be done,
but will it take away from these
morning page poetry streams of [semi-un]consciousness(?)
and
why can’t i think of myself like i did
at fifteen
seventeen
nineteen
when i fancied myself a mini-ee cummings
well on my way to
making language my b*tch(?)
even though now it’s probably more reality-based
to think that someone else has thought of
‘streams of [semi-un]consciousness’
before,
but boy,
did it give my ego a boost
to think i was thinking
entirely new thoughts
new concepts
new words
new communications
with new people
instead of how my brain is now
knowing that there are no new ideas
and instead of that spurring me on
to create without worry of plagiarism,
it instead spurns every concept i have
with the barrage of
‘you will never be creative enough
to think of anything
fully
new’
[
you
].
man
these morning poems aren’t doing shit for me
and i’ve felt adrift since 2022 day three
and i thought i’d found where my serotonin was lost
but it turns out it was just capitalism in a silly mustache
and i tried for a while to follow the dopamine
but i guess that dopamine i followed wasn’t meant for me
so i suppose i could just succumb to the unconscious dreams of sleep
but naps give me less time to accomplish the day
but is it even day if the sky is so grey
and the haze of the rain pounds the panes in sheets
and this playlist slaps but sometimes too much too deep
and i’ve probably lost the rhyme scheme somewhere in this mush of words
but i push and i pull and i try to open new doors
but they scare me so much
i’m paralyzed
to the floor
so i guess i’ll write
and write some more
until i can pull up my feet
and walk outside
once
more.
i feel like i’m a the tail end of my creative flow
and i know
that’s not how it goes
it’s a well that never runs dry
but sometimes
the rain droughts or floods
and circumstances can dictate
more states
that i’d like
but, like,
why can’t i at least have some sort of
steady flow,
trickle,
a tickle
in my brain
would be better
than this blankness
that fills my mind
like a void
negating every possible
creative
thought
and turning it
to
stone
cold
static
over
and over
and over
again…
i’ve been writing and deleting
for a few days now
[and drawing and erasing]
and i know this happens
no matter what;
it is inevitable at some point
to need to re-create
in order to finish a creation
but i’ve been starting and immediately stopping,
each burst of creative energy is met with
“ehhh…maybe not…”
to then need to forge a new path
ahead
and i am unsure if this means i am having trouble following a complete path
or perhaps i’m simply noticing earlier where paths will not lead
or maybe it means i’m putting everything down on paper[screen]
when i initially start
instead of editing myself in my head
whatever the reason
[be it “good” or “bad” or “neutral”]
it doesn’t stop the “now”
from being quite frustrating
every time.
it is approximately
one month shy
of the one and a half year mark
of Kip
going into work
physically.
and i’m getting all nervous
about them going into work
physically today,
though their work is vaccine only,
and mask encouraged,
and Kip told me they’d probably keep their mask on all day long,
but i’m still all nervous
maybe it’s because i’ve been the one to actually go outside
in this Global Patrick Stewart;
i’ve gone grocery shopping
and picked up prescriptions
and had doctors’ appointments
and circus classes
and marches
and protests
and Kip has accompanied me on a couple adventures,
a protest here,
a vacation there
(a vacation where
we still only stayed inside our airbnb the whole time)
so i’ve been out on my own
and Kip has not
and they are a grown adult
and used to make this trip
into physical work
every
work
day
arriving between 8 and 9
leaving between 5 and 9 (depending on after-work activities)
and they learned the streets of manhattan
around their work
and maybe i’m just nervous
that they will once again
have a life apart from our tiny Brooklyn living box
but i also want them to have their own experiences
so we can come together at the end of the day
and share our stories
together.
i have no need for them to only have a life as i can see it,
similarly, i enjoy their encouragement of my
circus classes
and acting classes
and film projects
and artistic endeavors,
but i’m still all nervous…
(i wonder if this is how they’ve felt every time i went in
physically
to an aerial space
over this last year or so…)
~~~
i know
it’s possible
to hold in one’s heart
the gratitude
that one has personally
dodged a bullet
as well as the support
and solidarity
of those who experienced it entirely
but i can’t seem to convince my physical form
that this is, indeed, a thing that can happen.
~~~
my creativity
is still part of me
even when i’m not actively
making up worlds
and writing new words
and surpassing my own expectations.
my creativity
never leaves
just sometimes
it might need
a bit of a
nap.
it’s the dichotomy
between
my very private personality
and my desire/impulse to overshare at every opportunity
it’s the balance to find
between
loving the little luxuries in life
and not feeling fully fulfilled
unless i’m working insanely hard
it’s the desire to be the raw, young talent
switching between
wanting to be respected, knowledgable, wise
it’s the old soul behind a young face,
it’s the bubbling energy inside an aging body
it’s the creativity battling the perfectionism
it’s the wanting to do good, placed against knowledge of how bad it really is
it’s loving humanity
and being so scared of people
all at the same time
it’s the dichotomy
and it’s forever battling inside me
(i have always identified with Aang,
but maybe i’m more like Zuko,
trying to prove myself,
working against insurmountable odds,
until another option shines through
and i realize i didn’t need to work that hard to begin with)
(that analogy didn’t lead where i initially thought it would…)
