Old Poem

So a dear friend from high school (thank G-d for Facebook) sent me this great link from the Huffington Post. It's a talk given by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love. She is talking about the creative process, the method, somewhere along the lines of a muse, but not quite. She speaks of the creative process being seperate from our ego. And she calls it the genius, and the genius exists outside of us like Dobby, the house elf from the Harry Potter series.



http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/02/10/ted-conference-elizabeth_n_165513.html



This theory really speaks to me. I don't even dare to call myself an artist, I just enjoy writing, occasionally. It does bring me joy when others enjoy what I write but if I feel myself writing for an audience instead of myself I get annoyed, and if I write something I think is fab and get no feedback, I am as equally annoyed. So to place the creative energy on an outside entity, and to place the blame on them as well.............well it's very liberating.





What is my fucking point you ask? My point is that there exists a pressure to create and whether that is internal or external is a mystery even onto myself and if you don't like it then please feel free to go check your email. I accept (almost) no responsibility. And having said all that I am going to share a poem I wrote 16 years ago. I was living in Texas and I was depressed. That's redundant. It was raining too.


Kitty stares fascinated by smoke drifting from the burning incense.
Distracted by the rain she goes to the open window to investigate.

I stare fascinated by thunder and lightning from the warm, inky night.
Distracted by the car alarms set off by the grumbling thunder.

Flourescent white lightning illuminates blue and purple hues in the thick sky.
In a flash bulb second I expect to find a red-eyed lonely teen, fingers wrapped around a cigarette, standing in a corner.
Or a demon, fingers wrapped around a frail neck, lurching towards the bushes.

In a flash bulb second I only see clearly, my drab surroundings.

Kitty playfully bats me with a padded paw.
I absentmindedly pat her and she turns tail up to casual affection.

Another round of thunder and lightning to write home about.
Home where redwoods, eucapyptus and oaks reign supreme.
Not stinky oil fields.

It's so easy to forget the past when you miss your home.