Thinking about the essay I wrote my freshman year of college: “I find it necessary to write…”
& I do. I do it in poems, in here (on here?). & my compulsion to blog feels like my compulsion to write poems.
Narcissistic, self-absorbed blogs? Kind of love them. Love to see how people are made, or make themselves, or however you want to look at it…
Thinking about how poets seems to reject the blog. Does this make me a bad person, ugly, to navel-gaze so unabashed& publicly? Is this who I want to be? (This feels beyond me, an impulse… but maybe one I should examine… I guess I do… as everything…)
I don’t want my blog to hurt. Not anyone. & you don’t have to read this. I don’t advertise.
Oh to be awkward, contradictory.
So much excitement, & poetry, & my nails feel weird after removing the manicure
& the man in the picture at the top of my blog is dead. Told over Facebook.
(really, want to be the perfect
self.)
1 Comment
April 27, 2009 at 1:24 pm
Oh, this is in response to Michael Dickman, isn’t it? People don’t have to read blogs if they don’t want to. Don’t feel ashamed to write. Anywhere. Do you think Rothke or Pollock felt ashamed to gaze into the canvas, to remake themselves again and again, in a mirror that would help others understand their own nature by being able to witness the narcissistic impulse of the other?
I know, though, what you mean…or I pretend to know. I wrote something last night that made me want to vomit, I thought it was so self-absorbed.
What can we do, eh? There is no perfect self. If there was, it most assuredly would be imperfect.
THANK YOU for writing THIS BLOG