Tequila Freewrite (Warning: Stream of Consciousness)

A decade ago, or perhaps more, the words always came easy. There was so much to say and no voice strong enough with which to say it that the page presented the only proper receptacle. Slowly, but surely, as less needed to be said—or so I told myself—a distance grew between paper and pen that now, so many days between now and then, seems insurmountable.

At first, it was the result of happiness. All the words from before were rooted in sadness, despair, hatred, loathing (mostly of self). The vocabulary of joy was foreign, unknowable—as if a man with no knowledge of Aristotle or Plato were suddenly thrust into Athens circa 500 BCE and expected to know the noun declensions of ancient Greek. Yet, our capacity for language is such that a few weeks in a foreign culture should suffice to allow at the least basic utterances: this I expected after time spent in bliss, but still the words to express my jubilance existed only outside of experience.

And then came the despair unrealized, buried in the comforting embrace of a lover too good for one’s self. Though downtrodden in some ways as before, the words no longer existed, having been erased by the bliss of time preceding, however brief. Here, though, I found words vocalized, for the first time, in the absence of light found inside a dive of a pizza bar on a nearby street corner. Philosophy, as it was meant to be done, you could say. A meeting of minds, often in agreement, other times vehemently not, spiced by the sweet lubrication of beautifully ruby pints of Guinness. A new form of happiness, amid the destitute nature of earthly things, such as money and shelter.

Over time, paths parted, and the only semblance of what once brought sustenance existed in the chemical composition of alcohol, in many of its forms (but almost never vodka). With every sip, memories of the pleasant times of days lost forever but also a blessed numbing of the mind that served—only occasionally—to dull the pain of loss. Though they were needed then (and now) more than ever, the words were gone. Those vocal were first, as they were never natural, but with them soon went the written, fleeing as a shadow flees approaching light.

Still they elude, captured only with the impetus of liquor in quantities unacceptable for one of such anemic body mass. And they say nothing, as they do here and above, as though their mere existence is enough now that the castle has sunk into the swamp.

What the Internet needs more off...

...is my poor attempts at eloquence. Mostly, I need an excuse to update this thing, so here's some bad poetry. It's like Christmas in August, right? And no, I don't really title these things. I'm not even sure I finished some of these, since I open this thing so infrequently.

Alpha
Speakers crooning
As they often do
Fragile glass
Filled with liver damage

Decadent confections
Corrupt a forgotten smile
Dopamine flutters
Like dandelions in the wind

Beta
Of two forms
In company, in laughter
Gears churning
Behind the curtain
Lying quiet
Fearful of falling bombs

Trigger hangs
Target in the center
Pull the switch

Shields crumble
Broken fortress exposed
Alarms sound
Defend the bulwark
Walls rebuilt
Only to fall again

Trigger hangs
Target in the center
Pull the switch

Gamma
Silence too often recurrent
And never blissful or profound
Punctuates discordian static
No more than bedlam devoid of succor

A friendship tranquil and empty
With allies welcome though bitter and dark
Dulls the quiet refrain of regret
To calm the wish to populate the silence

And thus comes not calm but complacence
With a journey ever downward
Along a path of no returns
And a silent ending of its own

Writer's Block

I often feel the urge to write even though I have nothing worth writing.

Most of the time, I call it writer's block--that's what it is, after all, isn't it? I want to write, to self-express (as Kevin Smith puts it, for instance), but the words are not forthcoming. I often wonder if others face these problems in their mediums of choice. Do artists sometimes not know what to draw? Do the lines just never feel right? The same could be said of musicians and their notes, or sculptures and the clay available to them.

Sometimes--nearly all of the time, in fact--it feels as though the words are there to write what I desire, but the structure is absent. Even now I'm writing largely off-the-cuff, having not known what would spill outward once I started typing into the posting interface on Blogger.  But what I'm writing now isn't what I want to write. It's just a misdirection, meant to trick my fingers and slightly alcohol addled brain into thinking the motions are in the proper place.

I do not, to be honest, understand writer's block. Most of often when I encounter it, the impetus to create is present: that desire inexplicable by any other means but to "self-express" in some fashion or another. For me, that fashion has always been one of words--I lack the talent to turn pencil strokes into recognition except by the arbitrary meanings of alphabet characters strung in still more arbitrary sequences. The words, indeed, are forthcoming, but that thing the words are necessary for: the scene, the character, the theme, the message...these are ephemeral, elusive.

A Recognition Scene

For context, you can listen to the following (or at least Google the lyrics):

More specifically, the recognition scene (or anagnorisis) in a Greek drama involves the sudden revelation to the main character of a critical fact. The most well-known example is probably the scene in Oedipos Tyrannos in which Oedipus learns that he is the murderer (of his own father) at the center of the play's central conflict (the plague) and the husband of his own mother (the queen). The recognition scene in the embedded Mountain Goats song is sweeter, in some ways (and not just because of the stolen candy), as it captures in time the moment in time when one of a pair of friends realizes not only that the other is crucial to his or her (though the singer is male, it's not specifically called out as such in the song's narrative) life, but that they will probably be separated someday. It's a bittersweet moment, and one that many people can probably relate to.

I do not often free-write, but I'm in the mood to, and recognition scenes are on my mind. So here's a recognition scene (post-writing comment: in verse, apparently, even if prose was my original intent). I make no apologies for the lack of literary quality, as the intent here is to put words to paper (haven't I done that already up above?), and there's Guinness and Jameson both at hand. Hopefully, the words that follow do not assault the senses violently, at the very least.

Ordered strips of gray concrete
Dividing patches of densely packed snow
So blinding in the early morning sun

 Mercury hovers in digits solitary
And the wind defies the numbers
Stinging skin, dying it painfully red

But it is that time appointed
A finger already numb from cold
Rings a doorbell in sweet anticipation

Yet harsh exposure continues
The programmed chime left unanswered
A meeting perhaps forgotten or forestalled

Minutes tick while the flow of blood slows
And dry eyes well with tears soon frozen
By the bitter truths of mid-December

Something masquerading as a finger
Strikes the doorbell thrice more
First in concern, then desperation, and finally anger

Morning crawls on, limping in the harsh chill
Time passes unmarked as higher thought declines
Such that departure is dismissed on principle

An age goes by and only then a door opens
Fury hardened in winter melts like ice in summer
Leaving only three words spoken from visitor to guest