What
Is
It?
A series of moments that string together and have some sort of overarching meaning? Or is it for another to deduce….. Does a meaningful life feel good? Yeah, what role do feeling play in deciding if it’s been a good life? And is it always to be judged in retrospect?
In any case I’d imagine it starts with asking the right questions.
So, what is life–a good life?
Splintered
A life splinters into years,
years into months,
Months, day
Days, hours
Hours, Minutes…seconds.
My hands scared
Trying to piece it together
Time spent pulling splinter
from my heart, hands and feet.
Groaning……it’s all wrong.
It’s all wrong, my perspective.
Broken, yes, but splinters
Into a beautiful mosaic.
I’ve caught a glimpse of
Fallen in love
Within the confines
Of her skin,
Her skull,
In an atmosphere of intrigue
Dwelt beings of monstrous
compassionate inclination:
She’d gravitate towards
The needy, the ‘no-gooders’
Exploited, drained,
Clogged, lost.
In desperate need
Of rest, of silence
But all she got was
A never ending din of
‘Oughts’, and ‘Shoulds’
That only relented
When she got going, doing.
Life is a lot
Like a Game
Of Chess, She said.
And that’s the Problem:
I don’t play chess,
Don’t Know how.
But have always felt
Caught, in a game
With ambiguous rules.
I could see patterns,
Certain predictable repetitions
But never the whole picture.
Learning takes a lifetime,
And by the time you’ve figure,
or began to, it’s too late,
Your time’s up!
Hey, lone star
Lingering, waiting
On morning, on day.
You remind me
Of when I was younger,
As I still am
Lingering.
Look! What splendor!
It’ll wipe you right out.
Won’t share,
you’ll never see
The light of day,
The sparkling dew.
But you’re made
For night anyways.
It’s all wrong, you moan.
How I am: a contradiction.
And I concur.
But this, your proposed script, for me
It’s flawed. If
It’s me, mine
How then does it not
Align with my interest.
It’s not a blank, my life
For you to scribble on.
I will not trash it, this script
I’ll keep it, a reminder
When things get tough,
That it could be worse,
I could be living someone elses
Idea of me.
Attention like
Some fine wine
Makes her head light.
She busks in its glamour,
Oblivious of
Tomorrow;
Unwilling to consider
The grass of the field.
Her life
A brilliant poem
Traced out
In the minds of
Her contemporaries,
But like sand are
Soon blown away.
Her memory erased.
You’re
A
Sad
Song
On repeat, she said
It’s exhausting,
she added.
I remember reading somewhere that one finds their writing voice by writing. Being yourself. By reading and experimenting with different styles.
All sound advice, but I was looking for something more specific.
Someone else mentions confidence–self-confidence. Maybe.
Feedback. Be it in the form of a mentor, or peer review. Possibly.
Or all the above, and then some.
Of late it has been on my mind, a lot. What my writing voice sounds like.
For you see I do write a lot, and I’m not familiar with my writing voice. The closest I’ve come is the echo I hear whilst reading, say, my favorite writers, when something resonates. And sometimes I’ll write something, shelve it, then come to it at a later date, and I’ll think i hear a distinct tone…..the closest I’ve come.
And then there’s the shadow side of those echos, the belief that I can do better ‘if only… ‘ Hubris. Tearing a piece apart to show how it could have been, say, more this, or that. Better. And in my head, I’m brilliant. But with each word on paper/screen the chasm grows, between what’s on my mind and what finds it way on paper.
Those ‘oughts’ and ‘shoulds’ I impose on anothers material are clues as to my own bent, if only. And sometimes it feels like I’m working–or like theres a counter force that seems determined to ensure that my writing isnt cohesive. Or do I imagine it? And, if there’s indeed a counter force, whats the pay off?
Style is character, I heard it said. This seems to imply that an artist is inseparable from his work. It makes sense since it an expression of a particular, distinction point of view. So authenticity is an important ingredient in the process.
The more I think (write) about it the more it appears that what I need is not so much search for my voice but clear away the noise, the static, so I’m heard. It’s being present, otherwise its a party where the host forgot to invite himself, ot is masquerading as someone else, making a fool of themselves.
It’s about clarity. It’ll involve abandoning all those ‘oughts’ and ‘shoulds’ I adopted along the way. It’s about being clear on who it is I address. Who’s the audience. What is it I wish to convey. How.
So, what do ya’ll think?
A muffled sound,
At a distance:
A gunshot,
Or that book
Knocked off the
Bedside stand.
I nod off.
Uncertain.
A writers
kimanian 