Bukowski, Shakespeare, Dickinson, Plath

Cherry blossoms on the ground.I might be closing up this experimental blog soon. I’m growing bored with it.

I didn’t know how to work WP when I first got here, learned as I went along. Still don’t understand everything, but I got the basics down. I’m curious about the format list, but I haven’t experimented with it, see what happens. I have “standard” checked.

I understand how the media files work, how they are connected to the blog. In the beginning I didn’t know that if I erased an image (in the media section), it would disappear from the blog post. Now I know the media and the blog page (text page) are technically two separate files, and when I add an image, the image file, or media file, and text file, the blog page, get linked. So if you erase the image in the media file, you’ll get a blank space linked to your blog post. I also learned that images should be kept small before uploading to the media file, that even if I adjust the size of the image on the text page, the file size remains the same in terms of bytes. Larger files take longer to load, and a reader with a slow connection will have problems. I read that on some tech site.

I know. You don’t give a shit about that. But it’s interesting to me. I like learning things, especially on my own (autodidactically). Most teachers (or professors) left me flat. They didn’t tell me what the fuck I NEEDed to know. It made me crazy. I’d go to class (at Cal) all prepared to ask a question about a line or passage in the material we read–the assigned story, poem, or novel–and time and time again, the professor asked the question first, asked it of us; it was the topic of discussion for that hour. And I’m like, what the fuck? Why am I here if you are asking me the questions I already have, instead of giving me answers, information, knowledge? I don’t fucking know the answer, that is why I have this question. (I never shared this thought/feeling with any professor.)

But that’s the thing. There are no simple or singular answers when it comes to literature or an intellectual inquiry. But if the professor could’ve given me some information, something, anything, I might’ve been able to bounce off of that. I couldn’t bounce off a fucking void.

Hell, maybe it’s me. The theory was, which I believe was (is) Platonic: to teach, ask questions, which creates a dialectic.

That didn’t work for me. I need answers, then I can agree or disagree, or it might spark another idea for me. Being an English student studying literature at UCBerkeley was a struggle for me, who had insufficient experience in literary conversation, in intellectual discussion, in intelligent discourse. My time at the community college was like a crash course. Having gotten married at 16, I’d been in an isolated, ignorant void, with no contact to intelligent or intellectually curious individuals. I had a lot to learn, a long way to go. My ex used to call me a “mind fucker”, a term he got from the movie Serpico, and he ridiculed me for being curious and wanting to satisfy my need for knowledge. For Beauty, really. I still crave it.

Hell, that’s the story of my whole fucking life, a crash course and on my own, cuz ain’t nobody to lead or give a shit.

I’m just here talking to myself. “This is my letter to the world,/that never wrote to me.” I’m tired of just talking to my damn self. I’d like “the world” to write to me. Give me a thought, man. Ain’t’cha got no thoughts? What’s the point of writing in a fucking void?

For me, there are four crucial writers: Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson, and Plath.  But, next to Mother Goose, Kerouac sparked the blaze–my love of literature.

Although I’ve been writing essentially my whole life, for myself, to myself, I was thirty when I got on this road, pursuing connection to a lit world, lit life. I’m 65 now (or will be on April 30), I’m a grandmother, and all I have (that matters to me) is one poem published by Ishmael Reed. And that was over 20 fucking years ago.

It’s my fault, mostly. I don’t do enough to promote myself. On the other hand, I want to be published, read, accepted, because I deserve it, not for any other reason. I want to create literature, not creative fucking writing.

It’s “my fault”, but it’s also Fate at the reins.

I’m listening to Cage the Elephant. Rock and roll inspires me, motivates me to write. It’s like pouring fuel, a combustible, juice, into the fire. So does jazz, and blues, and classic country, and bluegrass.

If I close this blog, this personal blog, I will eventually start another. Elsewhere. Sup’m different. But not as “Nobody”.

Shit, I totally know most of what I say goes over heads. (The allusions.) Or under the feet. Or armpit. Of the silent few who read this. I can only assume, so, I suppose I make an ass out of u and me.

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About Poet Dressed In Black

Poet living in San Francisco. I like telling stories too. I'm an introvert, and I like, need, solitude. I find that depth is a rare quality. Someone once said to me, "You're a very deep person. It must be really hard living like that. Most people aren't that deep." I said, "Yeah. It is hard. It really is."
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