Soup, Poop, and Poetry
Last year I was seeing this girl. I'll call her Lauren because that was her name. she was an intelligent lady, probably the smartest I had ever dated. She was into writing and literature, politics, current affairs AND she had her shit together. She was the ONLY female who could ever hold her own against me in shit-flipping and witticisms. She was FUNNY and she 'got' my humor.
She liked poetry and was annoyed at my off-handed rejection of most poetry. I think it has its place but I find most poetry, like most blogs (mine especially) to be self indulgent and WAY to self-aggrandizing. When we would discuss poetry I would always say, "It insists upon itself." (I was quoting Peter Griffin when he gave his reason for disliking The Godfather.)
I told her that in fifteen minutes I could write a poem that was as good as the ones in the book we were discussing. She told me to do it. She encouraged me often to write or use my mind in some way. One day I sat down and wrote a poem. It was something about the moon but the moon was a metaphore for her. Pretty trite, huh?She said it wasn't bad and wanted to read more. I wrote a few more. I kind of enjoyed it and she knew it. Still I would email her a poem with the disclaimer, "Here's a poem I scribbled out. It INSISTS upon itself."
She met a guy and we started seeing less and less of eachother. I think the last poem I sent her went something like:
I could eat a can of alphabet soup
and tomorrow you'd find
a poem in my poop
Not all of my poerty was that good.
During the 'break-up' I wrote a LOT. After I began to get over Lauren my muse became scarce and I stopped writing. My story entitled 'My Muse is a Fuckhead.' was written during this time. I rewrote and posted it here the other day. You can read it but it doesn't mean much except to me. It's pretty self-indulgent and it insists upon itself.