We have an osprey who’s territory overlaps the land next to our home. Every now and then we spot him hunting or surveying his domain from a branch or light pole. Gorgeous raptors. They have a crest of feathers on their head and dark markings around their eyes, which got me thinking about crowns and masks and identity. I doubt the osprey much cares what we think about who he is, but what paradoxes do we carry in our own identities and why?
My bride and I are attending the Houston Symphony tonight. They are performing in conjunction with footage provided by National Geographic and we are both very excited. Needless to say, today’s poem was inspired by my excitement and expectations. The idea of something so decidedly human as music juxtaposed to imagery of that which is untouched by man brings to mind thoughts of our relationship with nature and nature’s relationship with itself.
I was reading an article this morning about decoherence and I’m how countless uncontrollable environmental factors are the key reason why we don’t yet have effective quantum computers. The short version is that there are so many outside influences that the absurdly delicate and complicated machinery goes wonky halfway through trying to calculate anything that’s worth being calculated. It got me thinking about our own communication with each other.
In his book “On Writing” Stephen King describes the process of writing as an act of telepathy that transcends time and space. I love this idea. I also see that it’s not entirely accurate because even though you are reading the thoughts that I have put here directly from my brain, there are countless environmental factors that will influence your perception of this writing, to say nothing of your own internal translation process. My thoughts are not your thoughts and decoding them for your mind to process will doubtless create a degree of translational dissonance.
In essence, it’s small wonder that we’re able to effectively communicate at all when you consider just how easy it is to misunderstand one another.
Confession. I hate yesterday’s poem. I’m sure I’m not alone as a poet who occasionally produces something he or she is unhappy with. I kept waiting for inspiration to strike me with something better and it never came. Lesson learned: push forward anyway. Momentum is more important than perfection. I’m beginning to suspect that I’m a rather dense student because this lesson seems somewhat familiar by this point.
In that spirit of moving forward, here are the poems for both 162 and 163.
I wanted to write about prosperity and this is what came out…
I was contemplating the nature of control this morning and realized that I have several personal hangups surrounding it that I need to work on. One of which is the struggle with the idea that I am not the author of my own life, but rather the protagonist in my own story. It’s an interesting reframing that’s given me much to think on and at the same time is more than a little freeing.
I had an interesting conversation with my bride about expressions we each thought of as synonymous yet which each of us understood differently. In particular our standard responses to the common question “How was your day?” provided the inspiration for today’s poem.
I’ve got a bit of backlog again. I’ve been writing but not publishing my writing as I should. I’d intended to spread out several of these backed up poems out over the course of the day but the day had other plans. So did the next. And it has been brought to my attention that when a backlog such as this occurs, that those following his blog do not like being suddenly inundated with multiple updates. So, here is my attempt at compromise. One post. Three poems. Today’s own post will follow shortly.
This poem was written in an effort to recapture the loss of the poem, Creative’s Career, which I started in a moment of inspiration that was cut short and the scrap of paper I’d written it down on was thought lost. While the opening is very similar, It ultimately became its own thing. Every time I finish a book, my mind is overwhelmed with ideas. Many of them for entirely new projects or for things I’ve set aside to do later when often what I need to do most is push forward onto the next book in whatever series I’ve started. So many ideas. So many stories to tell. It’s a little overwhelming.
I have been my own worst enemy with my writing. I’ve said before that part of the reason I use pennames is because they give me permission to fail. Permission to simply write. In essence, when I go into a piece knowing that I am going to publicly claim it as my own, I am writing from a place of fear and I think it is undermining my efforts. That got me thinking about the nature of fear and courage and what is required of me with regards to both if I am to succeed as a professional creative. Perhaps what is required of many of us going forward.
There is a principle in professional investing that is difficult for many to wrap their heads around, let alone embrace, and which I feel applies to many areas of life. Diversify your investments. Bleed money. Aim wide. The idea is that you’re waiting for something called a “black swan,” which is to say the rare and unpredictable success. Something is going to do well eventually and it all boils down to a test of endurance. Waiting for that single critical moment to strike, the build off of. Then repeating the process over again.
I am a writer. I write poetry and novels. Stories are my passion. Have been since I was a child.
I use pen names, pseudonyms, as much for marketing as to allow myself freedom to fail and be detached from my work. I’ve been taking steps this year to remove myself from that fear-driven mentality. I don’t think that I’ll ever give up pen names–as a self-publishing author they’re useful for brand recognition and marketing–but there are many ways to handle them and mindset matters.
Those thoughts got me thinking about other kinds of performers this morning. The strength that some of them generate by virtue of having to face that pressure to be perfect and doing their jobs anyway. What if they didn’t have to? Would they, and we as those who enjoy their performances, be better or worse for it?
There has always been a division in my life that amuses me to think on. Half the people dear to me think me a pessimist and the other half think me an optimist. The last few days have felt a little like a less dramatic Three Stooges skit. This morning I ran into another hiccup almost right out of the gate. But it occurred to me how lucky I am to have to deal with this particular hiccup. In fact, most, of not all of my problems ultimately stem from leading a truly blessed life. It’s not that my problems aren’t real or don’t hold weight, only that, now that I dwell on them, it is as if they are written in liquid gold.
I love where I live. I am grateful that my bride and I have moved here. This is a wonderful, welcoming community that has been very good to both of us.
I have two good friends who I do not speak to as often as I wish I could or even as often as I should. My family often has events that I have to decline the invitations to. Our home is wonderful, I wouldn’t give it up, but there is a much greater effort to share oneself with people over distance.
My parents made a trip down from Houston today just to join my bride and I for breakfast on Memorial Day. It was kind and generous and inspiring. They made an effort. They sacrificed time and space to join us today. How amazing is that? I must try harder to do the same.
It’s been one crazy week. A lot of tough learning, a lot of picking back up, and a lot of being pulled in multiple directions. It’s times like these that all we can do is pick one and go for it.
The Everyday Poet 