Heavy is the Hand that Holds the Writing Thing

First things first. There is a lot of language that I have put out into the world and not all of it is honest and constructive/creative/life-giving. This is natural and to be expected. This is also a problem. While most human beings, and even many academics, see language as the great human equalizer (our [il]literacy puts us all on the same meaning-making/transferring playing field), I have recently begun to recognize the mammoth responsibility we as people inherit when we learn to speak and, as an extension, write. Okay so words are placeholders for images, objects, concepts, idea[l]s, and so forth. I’m totally fine with this. But when we use language irresponsibly (when we create word patterns that mislead or tear down our brother and sister humans) there are implications.

An immediate example comes to mind when I think of advertising. When people use language to build false meanings for consumer objects, something in the meaning-making part of our brains shifts and augments future language/experience/feelings. If I, as I often do as a copywriter, use the human feeling of passion to help advertise an automobile, both the concept of passion and the concept of automobiles change in the minds of myself and my readers (hopefully no one reads my copy). As a result, I fear readers might do one of the following things (or, eventually, all of them):

1.                    Actually start equating passion with automobiles (I’m not worried about car-enthusiasts here. If someone actually loves cars, my words will do nothing to change their beliefs. It’s the people who don’t love cars but start think they should because I say they should that I’m worried about. There is nothing about owning an automobile that will make a person more or less passionate about anything except fuel-consumption).

2.                    After recognizing that discounted automobiles should not raise passion-levels to heights of say, romantic love or patriotic duty (as I often imply they should in my advertisements), stop believing in passion at all (because when they did believe in passion, some irresponsible writer twisted their notions to try to sell them a 1998 Honda Civic).

3.                    After recognizing that deceptive language perverted their dearly held beliefs, stop trusting language and language makers in general and not truly read or feel anything (just in case someone is trying to pull a fast one on them).

Writers need to be honest with their language (or, if they’re going to lie, at least let the lies be of benefit to their readers, i.e., “everything is going to be okay,” etc.). To make a living I put words out into space that might not be the best things for people to read. I feel bad about this and hope readers are wise enough to see deceitful language for what it is (mainly hair grease, smoke and mirrors, and the best I can do to get by). For those that aren’t wise enough, I hope to make up for my irresponsible language with words that actually do something positive for the collective. It is with this hope that I offer the following apology:

Forgive me for the words

I drained of ocean

water and candle light.

They were the only ones

I could find on

sale this time of year. Also,

forgive me for buying

them with unearned coin

and even more for selling

them to the unsuspecting

thirsty and dark.

I thought this unspoken

business was the only way

to speak. I am rich because

of it and no less

mistaken. 

Poet or Regular Girl

I've wandered around the President's home for a few moments, taking care not to stray too far from Noah's side. The University President, Harry, has spent a lot money on white wine, no doubt his wife's drink. White wine of any kind, is a white woman's drink. But today, I'm just anxious enough to refill my pinot grigio five or six times before I can properly mingle with academia.

"You're Noah's wife, right? And what do you do?" asks a woman, whom I've never met. I smile and clutch my tiny plastic cup.

Does she want the "long of it" or the "short of it?" I'm too ashamed to say that I'm 27, toting a bachelors in English and working at a coffee shop with 19 year old's who tweet while steaming milk. So I say:

"I'm a poet." Fuck. Why have you gone and done that?

Her face lights up. "Lovely!"

Are you published?
Who are your influences?
How would describe your work?
Do you plan to write a book?
You know Toledo has a thriving poetry scene?
Do you preform?

Now, had I'd gone for the former identity, it would have made her terribly uncomfortable. As a tenured Biology professor, she's be shell-shocked by my plainness. What would she have said to such a commoner "Buck up, old girl, you'll find something worthy of your degree!"

Say this were improv class and we were partnered up to preform, oh, I don't know Sheriffs and Bank Robbers. I as "Sheriff," would have fucked the whole thing up if, within 3 seconds, I pulled a fake finger gun and shot her. That's the end of the exercise.

Needless to say, I'm quite drunk by now. I'm trying to keep my eye on her and listen to all the questions she volleys my direction.

Yes, I am published. In a few electronic journals.
I really appreciate the pre-Beat Generation.
I would say my work is the "Common Woman's William Carlos Williams."
I'm thinking about writing a book (friendly but slightly loud laugh inserted here), it's just a matter of getting those darn poems together!
Really, Toledo has poetry? Well, I might need to check that out.
Do I preform? (I pause a little too long before replying)
"All the time."

Lionz Pt. 2

Just a glimpse of the Ruas piece that is chilling as my desktop wallpaper.

I Got Yo Lionz

   I think it's important for language-people to be interested in visual art. I think this because a language-person with authority told me it is the right thing to think. For countless (11?) months I've read art magazines and checked out a few artists' websites and tumblrs with an idea in my head that if I exposed myself to enough visual art, I'd eventually find something that really stuck with me. Deep down, not many artists appealed to me. Their work seemed esoteric and melodramatic. Art made me feel dumb and artists made me feel pukey. I'd read the artists' interviews and check out their spreads, thinking I was cool because I was reading an art magazine at a coffee shop with an open notebook next to me (find that muse, son!). But inside I felt like an outsider (dig that pun?). Until today while I was sitting on the toilet reading a probably outdated copy of High Fructose. The work of Joao Ruas completely floored me. It was the first fine art in a long time (ever?) that made me think, "yeah, I can roll with this." At the end of the interview, when asked about how deadlines affect the creative process, Ruas commented, "I don't want to have a deadline... I want to evolve. And you don't have an idea when you will evolve."

   I think this is solid. Time plays such a giant role in our development as creative beings and oftentimes, I don' think it's given the credit it's due. As writers, we're told to "publish, publish, publish," to get this degree and that degree and juggle fourteen projects at once in hopes that one of them will be The One that defines our Voice. But at what point does our evolution as creative beings take priority over our deadlines, our make or break moments, our chance to publish or perish? Ruas' work has inspired me to evolve (just looking at one of his pieces jogs my mind with half a dozen poem ideas). Maybe there is space for us to publish our evolutionary process, and if so, I'm cool with that. But if not, I've still got a lot of growing to do. And I won't set a deadline on that growth.

Peep Joao Ruas' website at :

http://feral-kid.com/

And find your next favorite artist while sitting on the toilet. It'll humble you.

Respect My Space

This is more aggressive chalk tagging than it is poetry. I don't like special parking spots. They don't make people who they are.

The Graduate's Omen

If you don't
watch out you'll be
destined to some
minimum-wage
mediocre, middle
managed life.

Purpose

Is there more to life
than buying wedge heel
sandals for the summer?
You nod.
There HAS to be.