Blah blah blah...on a pretty rainy day

On this gloomy day, of rain and dark skies, I take in the increasingly disturbing news from the world. It doesn't make me want to write a poem, or "play" with language, my love. But I am determined to find something like comforting impetus in my dust coated coffers. It seems like that's exactly what I should be doing! But an uncomfortable silence falls around me, more intense as the months drag on, among aquaintances, family and friends, and I am distracted by it. I know they all know what I know, but we avoid talking about it. I refer to, dare I say, the wars and political unraveling of our national "ideals" and "human rights"--here in the U.S. as everywhere in the world. The unfettered flow of political and cooporate corruption and pillaging of the earth and the poor who work it. It is as if we (as in the folks we share our everyday lives with) all know so little, even collectively, that we are unable to formulate a useful discussion--even suggestively--and so we speak nothing or little to each other of it. Who is the we I am speaking of? Perhaps I shouldn't drag others into my personal realm of fear.

Fear that I am failing my responsibility to art, which for me includes all life I come in contact with. In family situations my role is that of clown, fool, jester. Normally, when I've sensed tensions rising too high, I will make fun of us or myself: fall on purpose, sprain my ankle attempting to sillify a serious martial art move, mis-quote a bible verse on purpose (which in my family goes a long way), or rattle off a completely inappropriate remark to unstifle the flow. When things are too instense, I will almost always try to manipulate the situation toward moderation. When appropriate; some things are good intense, like mourning the death of a loved one. But the line is so fine it's easy to cross without realizing it. After a certain amount of emotional intensity--my brain shuts down and it's impossible to THINK. I happen to love thinking, and find it has helped me avoid the nuthouse most of my life (to now). But thinking too...thinking without emotion...that too is dangerous. Perhaps less so, if one is truly in touch with their own cognitive powers. Shish...what am I thinking anyway? What is emotion? (Better question). Am I talking about emotional intelligence? There is such a thing--I adore it.

Don't laugh (or pity me). I know I am rehashing (publicly, and for a reason) an age old problem. But I happen to be presently worried about my nation's soul. It may be foolishly sentimental, but it is real never the less. How I envy poets from Chile, Spain, France, Italy, Iraq and Afghanastan even Ireland whose "hobby" is taken (more) seriously than in the U.S. By the poets and the people. Hence their work tends to reflect that seriousness. Is it there a collective national guilt among young poets? I know we all feel the state of emergency: our states of emergencies (national debt, human rights, civil rights, military state, trade debt, for sale sign on our labour limbs, border issues, health care issues, low education expectations, contribution to global warming, rising cost of disappearing resources and everything, and on and on)...but I suppose it does not equal the emergency (immediacy) of falling bombs. Falling bombs. No, it doesn't equal that emergency--not collateral.

My terrorist (U.S. style) is a different terrorist who damages the psyche. Even more ghostly than "Al Qaeda". Closer, too. Maybe that's why I am psychically paralyzed and can do no better than grumble, shake my head, rub my hands together--scribble out notes in code to be misread--worry. Write stupid blogs like this one. Some join organizations like Code Pink, as the poet Brenda Hillman, who personally asked me to join Tucson's chapter of Code Pink, which I did not (why? Because I am not that kind of warrior? Not a resister? Not activist? Shamed of hysteria?). Some compile anthologies, like Sam Hammil, with his Poets Against the War book and website, which for this guilty poet, seems pointless at times. It unnerves me to take it seriously. So many poets out there working it out with words. But why am I so stifled? I seriously wonder at times if my paralyzation isn't due to my misunderstanding of my own microcosmic cultural norms. Or, that I simply find it heinously incongrous to have to go against my fool-heart grain.

I put this out there publicly for this reason: I am using this forum (at this moment) to help find myself accountable for fearing giving a voice to my disgust, horror, anger, frustration, and love. Afraid of rejection, not being "artsty" enough, "cool" enough, or the worst thing: becoming preachy. Fear of isolation. Fear of not making any sense! Fear of not having fun doing it. Having fun? I love writing poems, and that's it, isn't it? Enjoyment, connection, disappearing, finding, fixing, fucking. Playing. Ha. ha ha...

Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality.
- Jules de Gautier