October 28, 2009
–that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s so glorious and grand and so, it is glorious and grand–
Recently, my poetry was compared to Ezra Pound in Venice when he went mad. And tonight, a classmate told me a line of mine reminded her of TS. Eliot. I don’t have the line…um, I’ll post it later.
I never thought that it would come to this. I never thought it would mean being called ‘abusive’ or being cast out from a group of friends. I never thought I’d have to wait to write that infamous chekovian piece about my beloved Canadian Landscape at 35. 20 years from the time I knew I was a writer – 15 years old. I never thought I’d end up stuck in Canada for so many years when I was, at one time, just a mere 50 miles outside of UCLA’s campus and living in 1990 Orange County, CA. I never thought. I never dreamed that it would be this existential; this riveting; this glorious and this cracking. David Mamet…oh, psshaw! I’ve got stories too. All of us writers, we all do. I’m littered with witchcraft, the daemonic in the closet and skeletons shackled to my bed both day and night. It’s so much fun. Enticing really and so self-self-self agrandizing; it’s sickening and boring after a while. Ah, but alas, that’s the dichotomy, the paradox of it, so glorious it’s humiliating, so grand it’s petty and pathetic…Ohhh…this work of myself, this work of words. Do we not know when to clear the spaces? I haven’t even begun yet and already I am so empty and so full.
I feel I am more than shaking hands with Virginia Woolf. I rather feel I hear her telling me, ahh, it just ain’t worth it lady. Write. Write. Write. Ahh, but the penultimate is to drown yourself while your at it too! And she’s there laughing at me. Or when this madness ceases she’s there not laughing but silent and pleased at the fact that it is really exactly a century later and glad to see that her predilictions on what words are there for women to speak are plenty and overflowing, so much so, that it is now irrelevant what sex is what and when and how and who? It is 2010 in just a few months and she was writing herself and assisting the Oh so respected modernist movement a century ago. Yes, how to love our predecessors and see how our own folly is their word over ours. I don’t really know what the F***
I’m doing. I’m ‘just a writer now’ because I said I was going to be. I’ll be 35 in just a few days.
Oh yes, I worship the craft. I love it so much I’ll destroy everything else for it. What a grand thing to be! What a grand thing to do. Give up children, matrimony, whatever that means, become poor. Live in affordable government housing. Keep yourself holed up in isolation and only frequent readings and socialize with other like-minded opinionated and self-absorbed assholes. Ah, Artistes! Gotta love ’em.
I’m a Poet. I’m a Playwright. I’m a Journalist. I’m a writer. I write everything. I feed words. I eat words. I die in words. This is my life and I am so much in love with it that I absolutely despise it; I hate it. I just loathe it. It is arsenic and pneumonia all poured into one lovely glass of coffee in the morning as I enter the next phase, the next stage of this written word.
It’s wonderful that it should come to this. Marvelous. I am alone. Solidarity and Solitary is the writer’s place and yet, I hate it. I just absolutely hate it. The rewrites. The time consumption. Ugh! Where is that glamour that I was seeking out at 15? It’s 20 years later. I suppose another 20 years in the making and it will all come to pass. How ironic. How interesting. How insane. Do you know? Do you know that I am so glad I’ve managed to get to this place. No husband. No child. No money—I’m bankrupt.
I’ve had a series of 3 major abusive relationships with men and I’m currently in the middle of an incredibly important ambitious undertaking and so stressed out! I’m writing my very first ever play and I’m incredibly proud of it. I love the idea. I love the premise. The story etc. I know it can be as good as Chekov’s The Cherry Orchard. Will it be produced? Will it ever generate funds. Ah, that remains to be seen or it will just turn into a pitiful Remains of the Day (not the book, just the expression) and I will have to resort to, should I be so lucky, teaching. I’m currently working on my Master of Fine Art through the University of British Columbia and I’m incredibly proud of it. It is forcing me to work. I’m thrust into spending a multitude of coin that is part of the family heirloom and well earned over many years of work. I often question if rather I should be investing in a fucking home as opposed to a writing career that gives me credentials and letters to say that I’m a writer by trade.
I’m really quite happy I’m enrolled in this progam. I get to work with awesome inspiring talent and people who are doing it ‘ASS IN CHAIR’ as Dave Chilton says…who got that from another Gobe and Mail journalist. Oh, lovely! It is an exciting thing though I question whether or not I’m truly up for this ambitious plight I’ve thrown myself into after so many years of madness, abuse, horrible living situations and conditions and relationships. Oh. God. Of course, writers, like myself are known to be diagnosed with that famous personality disorder that just makes us adorable, a borderline personality…there it is. I’m frankly, quite tired of categories. I’m not hacking heads off. I’m self-absorbed. There I said it. Simple.