Books stacked upon books upon more books strewn in with
tins filled with colourful shiny things and jars of sand, and boxes of various eras of technology I barely understand or is outdated interwoven with
scraps of paper with ideas jotted down and Important Receipts For
Income Tax Purposes and music and toys and abstract art and
knicknacky things and last nights dinner dishes and magic rocks and
paintbrushes all piled topple-high and become regularly hurriedly ransacked as I compulsively decide to re-examine and improve upon some conceptual pursuit.
And I haven't been writing diligently
like I said I would.
I have, in fact, become
“a writer who doesn't write”
so this is a poem I once wrote for
someone I love,
who was a writer that didn't write.
I thought it was funny. But he seemed to
think I was making fun of him.
Anyhow. It is a good place to start
because I have already written it so I don't have to concentrate too
much tonight and tomorrow I will call that Go-Daddy Race Car girl and
ask her how to get into the website I registered for the purpose of
writing some time ago which is www.stasiabryant.com
only I cant remember my password and I can't remember my password
hint question and I also cant remember accurately enough it would
seem which address or telephone number I happened to be keeping when
I registered it so that is one of this weeks goals and the other is
to learn how to use my twitter properly to research and network
#intentionalcommunities and vocalize my sentimentality over the old Disney cartoons I watch with my daughter. #emo
*sniffle*
And I am going to try really hard to do
something about that clutter, which I could have been doing all week
but instead I was e-tele-texting and skype dating with all my
wonderful friends from all the years discussing how we are all
touching different parts of the same elephant.
But I think its good to be writers who
don't write sometimes because you can just immerse yourselves so
fully into falling deeply in love and then smashing it all to
smithereens. And then you have all these insights on stuff you never
even suspected was relevant, to ponder and make art with.
“somebody's heart is broken and it becomes your favourite song” says Dave Mathews.
[the ostinato(?) in this song always makes me
think of the tao-of-pooh-sticks.]
without further ado:
Here Is The Story Of A Guy Named Greg
Who fell off a barstool and broke his
leg.
(Like Humpty Dumpty, but not an egg.)
Trapped in his room with crutches and
cast
Greg decided to get writing at last!
He wrote about homicide, cruel and
malicious,
He wrote of piranhas, carnivorous and
vicious,
He wrote about planes, trains and auto-mobiles,
He wrote of the light of the lamprey
eels.
He told tales of dragons in faraway
lands
And of quadriplegics with no feet and
no hands
He documented voyages of great sailing
ships,
And of LSD users on psychedelic trips
He wrote protest songs about corporate
pollution
With lyrics like “stick it to the
man- Blame the institution!”
He researched the effects of Alcohol,
Which co-incidentally was the cause of
his fall...
