In which I add egotism to ill temper

As I pawed through the books in my bedroom today I opened up an old notebook at random. Most of the older ones are in a plastic tub in the shed, but this must have gotten mixed in.

I have to say, I was in many ways a better poet when I was 18 than I am now. What to do with this old stuff? It's more publishable and suits the fashion better than what I'm writing now, but I'd be a little embarrassed to publish it under my name. It's not me anymore. I recognize that person and like her, but she's embarrassing. Maybe send it out with my real name, but a date on it? Well, maybe an old-Badger poetry blog, entirely separate. Why didn't I just publish all of this stuff in xerox zines at the time? My god, it boggles my mind how *much* of it there is. And how not-so-bad it is. I think I was braver then. And just like when I lost my job in 2001, I spent most of every day just sort of floating around in poety-emotion-land, floating around (as anna said) in the semiotic chora and pulling stuff out of it freely, at will, to paper. God, I miss that. I only really get there, these days, while I'm driving. And I have to do the lap-scribbling or pull off the highway and get it down immediately. When I was 18 I was in a state where I could "tap in" much more easily and I had more automatic freedom. Now it's like I have to space out for about 5 hours and read poetry incessantly until my mind is that free. On the other hand, I'm not so trite, which is nice. On the other other hand, I think when I was being trite, my poetry was a lot more understandable. Oh well.

Man! I loved Rachel a lot!!!!! (Summary of 18 yr old journal.)

It's funny to recognize my emotions and to remember specific moments. Some of these love poems (as with all love poems - just mine or everyone's?) could just as well be to anyone I have ever loved but I still remember who they're to or what moment I was writing about. My diary style was poety prose, or prosy poetry. As it is now but so much more in my private diary-file on my computer. Another confession - when I write with a pen, my hand hurts and wobbles, feels awkward and clumsy, and I'm aware of some kind of nerve damage fallout. It doesn't work right when I try to write. While I can type 95 words a minute. But I lose out as a writer when I don't write in the physical notebook, and I think I need to go back to it whether it hurts or not.

Or am I just momentarily deluded and in love with the rambling from my old journal...

Oh! Here's a familiar sort of page where I write down all the meds I'm taking for a particularly bad sinus infection, and the costs, and the different doctor visits.

Unsent postcard in the back, to Lisa D. which if I could find her, I'd send it now. More poems in the back to Anna Morrow, who I also can't find, but maybe she'll vanity google and write me email. Oh! a folded-up newspaper clipping of a letter to the editor, from me, bitching about a dumb article they printed by some guy named Van Garret about how "gee whiz" it was boob weather and how it was sort of revolting to see all the wobbly sweaty fat mammaries. In which I wrote something about the "fearless flatulence of the daily texan's asshole weather columnnist" and described his sweaty hairy balls. Go, little Badgerina!! Rant on!

I suddenly realize my reputation for being heinous and an completely alien being wasn't just made up out of nowhere.

Flip flip flip in the journal... whoops... I sure didn't remember writing this but I do now... a long poem to my own terrifying penis.

The thought of everyone having to DEAL with me when I was 18 is suddenly appalling. How did they? In Texas.

They didn't deal very well.

Hmmm. I don't really change much.

Comments

[Alan Bostick]

It's worth wondering whether in mumblety-ump years you'll feel the same way about what you're writing now as you feel now about what you wrote when you were 18.