July 11, 2005
I’ve upped the ante, promising a group of local poets that I will show up for their open mike night at the coffee shop and read something of mine. I’m not sure anyone knows what this means.
“What kind of fiction do you write?” they want to know. They stare at me, waiting for my answer. Is this the hardest part of writing, pigeonholing your particular style? What do I write? That’s a good question.
I stare back at them. They are younger then I am, so I will easily stare them down into submission. I type this even as I stare, adding to my mystic.
Nonsense fiction is the best I can come up with. “Mostly nonsense,” I tell them, realizing that staring silently too long at a group of young poets is no good for anyone involved. Good Lord, there’s no telling how they will be scarred, or what they will write about tonight when they get home.
They return to discussions of poetry, I write this and continue to upload some music for tomorrow’s Bob Geldof festival. And when that’s done, I will go home and retreat to my office for a long night of landcape related work. I will bid and account and pay bills until I am blue in the face.
It’s a good thing the young poets can’t see that. It’s a terrible thing.
Oh, I hate to do this to you, but as a non-aspiring poet, I must:
“mystique,” not “mystic”.
I hope you can live this down. But I fear for you.
(By the way, this piece is pretty funny.)
Of course it’s mystique. I’m not mad at you, naturally, but at myself. That’s two mistakes in as many years, and I’m beginning to wonder if it can get any worst. Damn. Apparently it can.
I should tell everyone about the time I hired a college student to stand behind me and poke me with a sharpened stick whenever he saw me make a grammatical error. I thought it was a fool proof way to stay ahead of the game. A bright, young mind, freshly educated in the ways of the word.
Unfortunately, he kept insisting that “beerrun” was a non-hyphenated word, and after several particularly hard pokes based on his belief, I was forced to let him go.
I wil let my error stand as a testament of my failing capacities. And because I’m feeling lazy.
(But because I’m so anal, I will no doubt sneak back later and fix it up right. And if I’m feeling politically anxious, I will trace back all mention of my mistake, erase even that, and effectively rewrite my history.)
But then, there’s that lazy thing again.
On the other hand, one of the delightfulnesses of poeting (and since this post is about poets/poetry, this is relevant) is that you’re granted a certain leeway with the rules of the language. So, I’d say go ahead and use “mystic.” After all, Van Morrison did. And our esteemed president takes language liberties daily. What is he, if not a poet in disguise?
Also, spray my sidewalk, please.
You’ve convinced me. I am Van Morrison and Bush rolled into one. I will call myself George Horrorson, and my band (really nothing more then a group of power-hungry poets) will be called We Pawns of Mass Destruction.
Leaving me with the question: The old sidewalk, or the new one?
My eldest daughter’s name is Beerrun. I take great offense in your taking her name in vain. Or is that vane?
Poor girl. I am almost positive Beerrun is a boy’s name.
On a side note:
My sad sister. When my grandpa would visit, he would always chastise my parents for having given their only daughter a name that was obviously a dog’s name. I honestly don’t think he gave a second thought to what this might sound like to my sister. Luckily, Keith is more of a horse name, and horses were well respected in the early part of the 20th century. I seldom caught any guff.
Old. The new one is much less terrorizing.
And, if you’re bored, you can help us move the piano.