May 6 by The Running Son
Mornings are coffee time. And perspective time. Time to reread those poems, Jim… see if you were dreaming when you wrote them.
Or in a dream, that will end. Like overnight, when the next morning you read what you did, what you wrote and published, and your heart jumps. O. my. god. I really went there. Your spelling needs a little help… fer starters.
Well, I went “there” yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. Wow OK.
But this morning, I enjoyed my coffee. With cream. Got irritated with D-Wiley, my fat-cat, and forgave him. Then I forgave me. For anything I might have wrote or said that might expose me and show everybody my heart-strings and how needy they can sometimes be.
And I breathed. Then started reading and reading and you know what? 2 years ago, I woulda freaked. Outward and out-loud, believe me. I don’t talk the way I have been. It’s not me. It’s scary, because I am all inside there, those posts, my words are wide-open exposed, and exposing me. What do I do now.. Privatize? edit or press delete?
I choose to let them be. Accept that it was me. My words, written without thinking much, like all mistakes or crappy things we do, we didn’t THINK. Just do, like there’s no tomorrow and nothing we do affects anyone.
But it was different this morning. Call it the coffee. Whatever. I reread them, and my heart soared instead of sunk. I am ok with being me. OK with saying stupid things, and letting folly dribble out onto the screen like a criticism about a person wearing a proverbial “kick Me” sign, a sharp remark that wont stay in. Stupid Jim. Don’t be a jerk. It’s not nice to criticize others even when they ask for it.
And it’s not right to criticize yourself, either, Jimi-boy. Even if you think you deserve it.
I haven’t been hard on myself for a few days now. The coffee? Hell no that aint it. I just said to myself, I’m not going to second guess what my own impulse tells me to write. Poem, rant, gibberish, it’s ok. WordPress and it’s wonderful bloggers will forgive you, and absorb it. And you should too. It’s like all of life, trapped inside of time; things happen, silly or not, and it just…goes by. Like a blogroll. And old poetry that we hold on to. Or a love that is dying.
We need to let them go. It– the Poem, the stupid stuff, and our need to be perfect. Polished and perfectly capable of being poet-super-blogger extraordinaire. BLAH!
I am writing, when I hunch over like a calcium depleted and bone-less jellyfish person, just stabbing away at keys, very naturally. I know some of you can feel it from me, that is to say, that I am writing genuinely. You’ve said so lately.
I have a strong and deep rhythm in my head. It’s like a tempo that I write to, and live life to. I have found long rhyme patterns in my writing. It scares me a little, but I am writing with a steady heartbeat and shaking fingers. But this deep pulsing is helping me write poetry and prose and all, but something else. And something vastly more valuable to me, in my opinion.
It is giving me a, til now, unprecedented timing… in Life. Like when to end a post and move on the the next one. Let life blogroll itself away. There is more energy to be found. More time, I hope, and more poems and ideas and loves to have, and more of life to be seen.
And there’s more coffee in the brewer. And a fat-cat to feed. I love all of you.