Beauty happens. Then the cold air blows in from the Atlantic, the magic leaves me at the harbour and I can't hold this holding anymore. In truth, right now I need to erupt. I need to throw poetry out of my car window and watch it fly away into the night's wind. I need to quiver under a blanket made of question marks. I need to stretch my fingers towards others that can meet them, that know what my fingers are trying to say. I need my piano keyboard. I need a symphony in my bathroom coming out of the shower head. Most of all, I need a dog, I have his name all ready, and I can see our mornings together.
Tonight, I cannot take any more intellect, any more men with the right words and the coolest of knowledges, the cleverest of analyses, the most directed of penises. I feel crushed by the weight of rational hands, and estranged from those which feel warm and alive. Thinking of writing, I do not know if I can pull apart my own words to see what makes them tick, and whether they tick well enough for other people to get. I am not sure I can understand them any more rationally than I can understand what it means to breathe.
And I try and name beauty, again and again with my feeble words, but I never can. I try and hold a pen to it's name, scrawl it onto scrap paper with some kind of legiblity, but I am only ever a moth fluttering at the edge of the sun. And this is the simple truth, what I was born for all along: to live with these tiny fragile wings and to fly close to a radiant heat which burns everything else away.
So, as long as I am alive, in some form, I have no choice but to keep flying and burning, burning and flying; this is the only choice I want to make. And this is the only way I can see writing for me, this is the only thing about it that truly makes any sense, as wings towards the sun.
Given this, how do I make room for the critical analyst in me? I want to step back out into a universe I thought I had left behind when I left academia, when I decided post modernism actually just hurt, and my heart couldn't take anymore rigorous analysis without love, and so I got into Buddhism ( meditation was the bridge). But now I want that edge of critiquing again, the sharpness of judgement and definition and technicality, because I want my writing and my 'writer's mind' to be able to hold that, to be big enough and strong enough to inhabit that, because I know it could help me grow, and I want to grow, I want exposure to whatever helps this writing grow, within and without. In a way, all I need is myself and my computer, this makes me happy. But there is a world out there, of writers and poets and words and meaning, of even bigger commitment to this crazy life I seem to be carving out for myself. I want to reach it, and I want to be a part of it, and maybe even in some way, change it. And I can only do that by opening to it, and by somehow, staying myself in it, not wavering.
Also, somewhere I know that logic informs all of my writing already - with my sharp editor's mind and my infuriating perfectionism, writing is rarely a pure act of spontaneous, intuitive emotion.
However, tonight, this night, I truly cannot feel where the two can meet, and I feel protective of my inner intuitions, my gut instincts. They have been the ones who stood by me when all other reason had left...
Ok, for tonight, this is my only answer:
tonight, I will come to a different place: a place of unfathomable walls, and silence.
I am taking my clothes off slowly in blue light and dancing for you, only you. I make waves with my fingers, a sapphire song with the shapes my body throws on the wall. I can see the poetess whore, and she tells truer than sentences and exclamation marks and pauses. She knows the limits to logic, how the brain murders what it finds. She doesn't care about adjectives and pro-nouns, but her body understands, her body feels the WORD within it. And there is only one reader, one looker, one pair of eyes. But there are a thousand silent faces watching, a thousand men, a thousand more women: all I want is to quicken their breath as mine quickens, for the beating heart to beat stronger and louder as the cloth falls to the floor.
Damn you, St Paul in my soul.
(I keep all blasphemy, hold it close, it is my sanctity... I cherish our pornography.)