I spend most of my time explaining and describing.
That is the job of a poet…I think.
A lot of what I say may seem to others deep, broad, and “other worldly”
I find it to be ambiguous chattering that I can’t stop. It’s funny when people ask me ANYTHING about my writing because most times I don’t know what I’m saying. I think that’s a good thing to keep things subconscious so my ego doesn’t sift before I plunge on the page.
I am not purposely searching for some truth when I write
I think I am searching for a nothingness and a clarity
and I tell myself that I have to say all I need to get out of my own way and get back to the quietness of my own mind; themes won’t let me sleep. The feeling is not enough the scenery must be accurate. I know how easily the room can change the mood, I try to be exact about that.
Writing is certainly easier than talking.
I am more visual than anything.
My senses are sensitive.
This could make me an interesting poet but it doesn’t
quite make me a people person.
External and internal realities fight for my attention.
I cannot tell the difference between thinking and feeling they
seem to overlap. This causes problems. Where confusion exists in
my writing is it because of these two rivals and their grandchildren.
A whirlpool of principles and desires that seek to break them.
A silent actor never makes a stage appearance but know all the character’s motivations. I lose myself so much in other’s character that retreat into my silent world is not liked but necessary.
A hermit, agoraphobic yes the world is overwhelming. A day outside is a book to write and I don’t have the brain power because I’m still painting the remains of yesterday.
I try my best throughout my day to unlearn but learn anyway.
I hate that.
Description seems less incriminating than definition.
I have never called a metaphor untrue.
If I can think to write it and there’s a medium around I go head first.
