May is a turning point, like the universe is doing a balletic performance and you’re truly astounded. Well it’s kind of like that for me. Which only goes to show, what?…grace and beauty, the leaps and bounds of a beating heart, the sanguineness that comes with the belief that everything’s going to be alright even though the universe is trippy as hell. So what is your point of view? Tell me now. In a poem of course.
Helloo my dearrs. I was just reading about the evil prospect of Trumpcare–pray it doesn’t come to pass. Anyway I was just reading something in a book that went like this: “Each of us had, to a greater or lesser degree, resolved to live according to his or her own system. If another person’s way of thinking was too different from mine, it made me mad; too close and I got sad. That’s all there was to it.” (Haruki Murakami, Pinball, 1973). I don’t really get the second part. Maybe because the system of thinking is one that would make one all lugubrious, like why are we here, or why must we work so hard, or something like that. But I think the greatest feeling one can get surely is that there’s some pattern to life, a meaning imprinted in our souls. So what are the seeds planted in yours, or what seeds have you planted, and are they bearing fruit? Think about that in a poem, will ya?
Day 30. Wow, means the end right? Are endings sweet or sad, I wonder? We all like to finish well I suppose. All’s well that ends well? You know what an ending means. It means that you’ve completed a journey. And the destination is somewhat of a non-event is it? I remember how I would work on a massive project and everyone would just coalesce together to get shit down, so much stuff to do and an end goal, but once the end goal was achieved, the sense of ending comes when there’s nothing left to do and everyone disappears. In that way endings are kind of disappointing. Would you rather be journeying or ending? But as they say, in all things there’s an entrance and an exit. You just got to enter some other door, you know. Robert wanted us to use the phrase, “The Blank-Insert Anything Here”, in a poem. He really means “The End”, we know that, but I’d rather you insert anything else but “The End”.
Day 29. The prompt, not the day. There’s something soothing about keeping things in perfect order. The French has a phrase for it, “mise en scene”, which means roughly the setting or surroundings of an event. It makes living so much more pleasant to have everything in its place. Just like in a novel, setting reflects a character, so in a psychologically real way, how a person’s house is arranged matters as an externalisation of the inner person. But I’m just wondering when things aren’t perfect, does it mean on some real, psychological level you’re in a bit of a mess? I’m only following this train of thought because Robert Brewer wanted a a metrics poem, either a poem written in meter, or referencing some measurement in metric. I’m sure you’d find some genius way to write to the prompt. I hope the poem measures up. Heh.
This is the one I’d missed yesterday. It’s a word list: pest, crack, ramble, hiccup, wince, festoon. Use them in a poem–what Robert Brewer wants us to do. Truth be told we’re nearing the end of this delectable month, said with a bit of irony only. Stranger things have happened. Why do I say that? I thought about it and this isn’t the most natural thing to do, to write a poem a day. It isn’t. It’s even unnatural to a lot of people. And even pointless I suppose. Anyway I’ve better things to worry about than to think about what other people think. So this is just me trying to be in their shoes. Those shoes don’t fit obviously. I’m taking them off and putting on my own festooned sandals.
Day 28. Where did yesterday go? Well, it went for a walk in the forest and I lost its trail. So you’d have to wait till I find him. Or is it an ‘it’? I checked out Robert Brewer’s smell prompt and decided to jump right to it. One has to follow gut instinct right? Right. So technically there’re two more days to go. Let’s go. Wait. What’s the scent?
Day 26. But really it’s Day 27. I’m kinda late. I’m kind of resisting. But resistance is futile. Why? Because the words are still flowing. So I’m as doomed as Sisyphus. The weather’s real stormy these days. It’s extreme heat alternating with extreme storm. Of course ‘extreme’ could be an exaggeration. But how I wish for mild weather. Like the Mediterranean winter. Rainy but no storm. In a thunderstorm, I think of the people living in floating houses. Or fishermen. They’re exposed to the elements much more. I pray to God for mild weather please. With no fatalities or regrets. Of course I have to link it to Robert’s Brewer’s prompt to write about regret.