After I wrote about the notorious "Megan Mara" last weekend I felt free. People who know me know that I love writing and have written a couple of shitty manuscripts and have sacrificied alot (mostly materialistic merit--no brand names for this luddite) to try to make ends meet while still trying to write the best I can everyday. When My girl Arya told me that bloggin' rivaled smoking as a wonderful, magicful vice that will make you cool because "everyone's doing it these days," I was immediately hooked after my first drag and spent the whole summer exhaling my smoky thoughts into a cyberlaced ashtray. I try to keep bloggin' separate from my novels, screenplays and books (yeah right) and I mainly blogg because I feel a special, mystical rapport with those who regularly visit my Internet apartment, lounging around with their feet up on my confessional coffee table while simultaneously fueling my creative flame.
Last weekend I spontaneously stumbled upon "Mara Megan's" photograph on-line and I wrote about her. As with any creative endeavor, the artist is more or less only a filter; all the refulgent glory and harsh experience this amazing life we lead entails pours through the imagination and fingertips of the "artist," and he tries to make sense of the crazy world through sentences and sound, through music and movement.
Everyone who has been in love knows exactly what it's like to see a picture of that goddess you once lived for who is no longer answering your prayers. By it's definition Love involves a physical exertion and a spiritual giving; sometimes pouring every emotional-riddled cell out of your body, into the ocean of another person's heart awards the Lover only with a saddled feeling of loneliness and failure.
What's amzing is that we still love. No matter how many emotional welts and romantic bruises we've doctored up in the past, we still accumulate the courage to reach down into that corner of our soul that is still capable of giving; that abandoned dusty, cobwebbed festooned corner of our psyche that is still capable of somehow connecting with other human beings and pouring everything that is inside of us out for the health and nourishment of another person.
Seems like this semester perfectly mirros the foreheads of previous lovers. I'm trying to do too much. I'm swinging the bat furiously over the plate before the ball has even left the captured palm of the pitcher. Everything I turn in the prof's seem to like at first and then they tilt their head in a vexing, rusty windmill reminiscent fashion, as if they are overtly baffled at what I am trying to say. This hurts, but naturally, I suck it up. Work late hours. Try not too smoke too much (ditto on the 'yeah right)......I think Whitman called it right-on, well over a century ago.
"I once loved a certain person ardently and my love was not returned
out of that I have written these songs."
After I blogged about Mara last week I somehow understood this: Every girl that is awarded a mystical slant on my left palm has heavily settled inside my chest like a granite anchor. Last weekend, after blogging about Mara's delicious tongue kisses, it sudenly felt like all that cement I had stowed up in various vectors of my heart had finally chipped away. That the cement wings were finally able to offer a little flap in the dierction of the sun at dusk.
I love writing and I love the activity of swirling words into a freightrain sentence. But last weekend, bam, I felt free, I felt unfettered. I felt like finally, I kissed a punctuation mark on the perfect forehead of a past love.
So we continue to throw ourselved into the shadow of our crazy lives. As Fitzgerald notes at the end of Gatsby, "Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further…And one fine morning - So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
...PEACE
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