I’ve had a pretty long weekend. The Scintilla Project is officially come to a close, and my brain is a little drained and tired now. I figured, if I can’t get something put together that made sense as a cohesive whole, maybe I could put something together from all the random smatterings of thought popping out of my ears.
Hey, randomly throwing random objects at the wall has always been my best Darts Strategy, anyway.
Believe it or not, I do not have a plan for my life.
I don’t even know where to get started. I always believed that if I just kept grinding out levels, sooner or later, I’d get to the end game and figure out what the point is. I just assumed that everyone knew what the crap was going on by the time they hit 30. I sure as hell have no idea what it is I’m doing. Sure, I have a vague notion of what I’d like to do, but no clue how to go about doing it. I know what I don’t want to be doing, and that’s probably as close to a road map for adulthood as I’m ever going to get.
Here’s the hard truth that I’m facing now: No one is going to hold my hand and show me where to go. There are no simple answers, and there are no easy solutions. The only thing I know is that I can’t turn around and go back. This is a one way street, and I have to learn to accept that.
“The poet stands naked before the world.” – Allen Ginsberg
I have no balls. No, sorry, let me rephrase that, because it might be construed as sexist. I have no chutzpah. I hope I’m using that word right. If any of you are Yiddish speakers and I screwed that up, just let me know. I’ll be happy to change it to a less fun sounding word.
I like the word chutzpah.
What I mean is, that despite the fact that some people I know think I might be a pat time nudist, I am way too terrified to stand naked in front of the world. I hold back from that. It’s a crime to myself. If you go back two paragraphs there’s an example of my self-censorship there. Not the obvious one, either, unless you know me pretty well. I definitely changed a word there that I shouldn’t be afraid to change.
I don’t want my mom to read the original word and be disappointed in me.
This is an issue that holds me back as a writer. I just don’t want someone who loves me to know just how gross I really am.
National Poetry Month
If you like poetry written by a real poet, you should start with my friend Mark. If you like a bad poem, written by the shallow, emotionless soul with no real grasp of timing or tempo, read this:
You can go back to ignoring me now and return to your normal, scheduled Monday night activities.
I hear there’s a bonfire somewhere at sometime.
That sounds like fun.