I will be participating in the Tan Renga challenge at Carpe Deim Haiku in May.
The first thing you may be asking is "are you flea-diddly-flipping nuts, Neighbor? Why, just a few days ago, you were spouting about how over poetry and prompts you were!"
However, this is not just poetry.
It's Tanka!
Tanka is one of my favorite forms of poetry.
In a Tan Renga, one partner writes the first stanza (the first three lines) and the other partner writes the second stanza.
Come along if you dare, and join in if you want.
I may also be working on making last month's mess into my first published book of poetry.
Why the hell couldn't I have had interests that pay in this life?
I watched the Jimi Hendrix documentary, Voodoo Child, this evening.
I didn't really become a Jimi Hendrix fan until I was in my teens. He died when I was only five years old. I saw a documentary about him when I was eighteen or nineteen, and it was good, but this documentary reveals more of his personal thoughts. He was brilliant and he left a lot of wisdom for the world.
The wisdom he imparted to me today is to stop looking for adulation and approval from others. This is something that I've struggled with my entire life.
When asked how it felt to receive so many compliments about his work, Jimi said that he really didn't care about compliments, in fact, he found that they distracted him from what was important: creation.
I think that's what it really means to be secure in oneself. Not so much thinking that one is flawless, but to be able to see the worth of one's goals and actions regardless of the opinions of the masses.
Lots of views and comments stroke the needy ego of the insecure and wounded child that remains within the crusty, curmudgeonly, and likely not at all tasty exterior shell which houses my soul.
This becomes a distraction to the creator. I start wanting to please my visitors rather than express myself through my words.
Next time I get stuck in that unharmonious groove, I need to remember Jimi's wise thoughts on the matter.
I will always be a fan of Jimi Hendrix the musician.
Perhaps most people won't understand this, but that doesn't matter.
I also appreciate Jimi Hendrix the philosopher, and I'm grateful for the wisdom and works that he left behind.
Or do you just claim to do whatever makes you seem educated
Are you the kind who has to go and shoot your rockets everywhere
Do you know how many of your kind I've known
Do you know that you bore me to death
Do you know that you aren't nearly as slick as you think you are
Do you know that I'm sick of driving around with my eyes closed
Do you know that I can smell your bullshit from a mile away
Do you know I already know that this feeling doesn't go both ways, no matter what you say
Do you know how utterly fucking transparent you are
Do you know that I got sick of guys like you a long time ago
Do you know that I no longer waste my time on time wasters
Do you know that I don't abide liars
Why don't you crawl back under the rock that you crawled out from in the first place
Do you know that you seem like a creep rather than a suave, smooth sheik
Do you know that I'm sick of guys like you who think they can crawl into a woman's heart and tear it apart without a second thought for what they've done
Did you know I'm done
Did you know I'm long past done
Did you know I'm already gone
~Cie~
Notes:
NaPoWriMo asked for a poem which reflects in a calm way on a subject that is generally emotionally charged.
Poems in April asked for a poem made up of questions.
In my younger days, I constantly berated myself, wondering what I did wrong to draw only the worst kind of guys to me.
The fact of the matter is, these guys were predators and clowns.
They were the kind of guys who deliberately seek out someone with low self-esteem because they think they will have an easier chance of getting laid with someone who is insecure.
A joker of this caliber isn't worth anybody's time.
I can reflect on it calmly now because I despise the whole dating/mating dance and refuse to play that game anymore.
It hurt me a lot back then. But from my current vantage point, I can honestly say, it wasn't me, it was them.
As a writer, i adore comments, and i treasure all of them. I do my best to respond to them, as quickly as i can. But as a mentally ill prrson, sometimes it's overwhelming -- especially when the comment is really long, and i end up putting it off because im depressed or anxious. Is there a cut off to replying to a comment, in your opinion? If i wait too long, should i just not answer at all? I just feel embarrassed and rude after a while...
threshie:
ao3commentoftheday:
I have the same issues and I also feel guilty and anxious about replying, but speaking as someone who has replied over 6 months later on more than one occasion, if anyone minds I’ve never heard about it.
I generally apologize for my lateness within my reply (even if I’m replying to the same person multiple times - I feel that bad), and if they do reply back they tell me not to worry about it.
I’ve also put it out on my personal blog that I’m sorry I’m so late replying and people are generally speaking really understanding about it.
Do your best. It’s all you can do. Don’t feel guilty for not doing more. ❤
The optional NaPoWriMo prompt was to reinterpret a Shakespearian sonnet, and the Poems in April prompt was to write a stark, two-line poem. At this stage of things, guess which prompt is going to win!
This is a photo of the building that my son and I may be buying. We will be going to see it tomorrow.
I know this blog does not have many followers and that in general people don't like me very much, but some of you may be curious to see what happens next if we do make this place our home. And yes, it is in a place which is literally in the Ghost Towns of Colorado guide.
The Poems in April prompt was to write about a natural phenomenon that amazes you. I decided that by "amazes" they meant "terrifies," so I wrote about the Yellowstone Supervolcano.
Seldom have I encountered a more troubled soul than Per Ohlin. As my lovely friend, the late Walt Cessna would have said, he was fukt 2 start wit.
(This was the title of Walt's autobiography. He said that I inspired him to actually sit down and write it. I have always treasured this knowledge. Walt died from complications of AIDS.)
I sometimes become overwhelmed and try to bury my empathic nature. It doesn't stay buried for long. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour, rarely more than a day, and then, as Per once wrote, up from the tomb it comes. I can't ignore the soul calls for long.
I wish I had known about the phenomenon of soul calls when I was younger. It could have saved me a lot of grief, but it's too late now. Anyone who is of a metaphysical mind is welcome to read about this issue here. For anyone who is not of a metaphysical mind, do us both a favor and don't bother. This isn't the high school debate team, I'm tired, and I have no desire to bend anyone to my own particular set of beliefs.
I am utilizing the Poems in April prompts again, but I am not joining up with the Linky in order to prevent another barney from brewing. Instead, I will comment on a few poems from people who have been kind and supportive along the way. Bit of a shame as I was getting a kick out of having so many visitors, but I find confrontation stressful, so best to keep that gate shut, I think.
All right, you've all met my wounded inner child and I had a day where I crashed and burned. As I said, I do not do well with confrontation. However, I bounce back more quickly than I used to, and today, the bitch is back. Now, meet my sassy inner child and my asshole super-ego.
I had made the decision to stop participating in the Poems in April prompts, but I rescind that decision at this point. I had an absolutely odious interaction with one individual, which is what caused my meltdown. I don't tolerate being patronized or told that my truth is a fabrication.
The preceding statement remains true. But overall, my interactions with people from this link-up have been super positive, and I'm not going to allow, as Inspector Tom Barnaby would say, a barney with a person whose condescension towards me caused my temper to go nova to stop me from making positive connections.
Around these parts, the heart and soul take precedence over credentials every time. I honestly don't give a flying flea-bitten fuck in hell what your credentials are. I care about who you are and how you treat others. I don't care if you have a Doctorate in Everything or if you dropped out of kindergarten. A fuck I don't give.
Look, obviously it's pretty impressive if you managed to get a Doctorate in Everything or even a Doctorate in Anything. Or a Master's. Or a Bachelors. Or an Associate's Degree. Or even if you managed to graduate high school. Or if you got a GED. Credentials mean you worked through a program, and the higher the program, one assumes the more knowledge you obtained. It still doesn't make your thoughts any more important than the thoughts of people who have not obtained the level of certification that you have.
I care about your heart. I care about your soul. I give not one single fuck about your credentials. Do not expend your energy bragging about your credentials to me. I probably care more about the ingredient list on my bottle of cold brew coffee from Stok. Coffee. Almond milk. Cane sugar. Chocolate syrup. The good stuff!
Unless you are performing a service for me where credentials are important (i.e. I don't want you operating on me unless you are an actual surgeon) please reserve your bragging about your credentials to your own damn space. Nobody here cares.
That being said, I am not going to allow a thoroughly odious interaction with one person stop me from forming connections with the vastly greater number of good and supportive people. They have shown me their support, and I want to do the same for them.
In the future, to prevent another donnybrook, I will refrain from interacting with the individual who lit my fuse in the first place. I may possess the soul of a ten-year-old child (I learn best by playing games and I have a collection of several hundred stuffed animals) but I am capable of behaving like a civilized adult. With people I don't get on with, I find the best course of action is to forego communication with said individual. Unless they insist on poking the bear, the problem should be solved.
Here's Twisted Sister to tell it like it is.
As one commenter said, I've never seen anyone so angry about carrots.
The disobedient son in the video is played by the video director's son. The angry dad is played by Mark "Douglas C. Neidermeyer" Metcalf.
Dear Rachel, you were my good friend In many ways, your life was hard You came from humble beginnings Were buried in a pauper's grave Strange that you've been gone ten years Dear Rachel, you were my good friend One of the few to accept me One of the few to know my heart Wish I could have done more to help Though there were many miles between Dear Rachel, you were my good friend I have never forgotten you I wish you hadn't died alone Wish I could have been by your side You were estranged from family Dear Rachel, you were my good friend Love, Cie
Notes:
Written in memory of my spirited friend
Rachel Lee (September 8, 1940 - April 17, 2009) who died of complications from diabetes.
This isn't where Rachel is buried, but she would love this place.
We will meet again in a place like this.
The poem is a Quatern. (Duh.)
I didn't end up following the NaPoWriMo prompt.
I am no longer doing the Imaginary Garden With Real Toads Poems in April prompts.
While there were a lot of great people who made me feel like I might have found "my tribe", it became clear that I really didn't belong there, so I feel it's best that I distance myself. Thank you to those of you who were kind to this freak of nature. Maybe one day Rachel and I will have tea with you in a place like the lovely memorial garden pictured above.
The Human Beinz were a short-lived 1960's band out of Ohio who were best known for their pop hit "Nobody But Me." I recall reading that this song, Flower Grave, was about the author's struggle with drug addiction. I can't find the interview at this time.
I always resonated with this song, particularly the line which states:
"I'll hide myself back in the night, no good is the love or the pain that's plain."
Interactions with other people are always precarious. I really dislike confrontation. Whenever I end up losing my temper enough to go nuclear, I wind up hurting all over my body. I'm fighting not to collapse inward on myself psychologically as well.
It really is World War III in my psyche. I am not exaggerating about that in any way.
Initially, it seemed that joining in on the Poems in April prompts was going swimmingly. I appreciated the overall positive interactions. However, at this point, I think that it is best if I withdraw from participating in this virtual gathering.
My son and I met Chris back in 2014 at the Denver Botanic Gardens Chatfield facility. He is a really cool guy, no "rock star" bullshit about him at all.
He asked me what song I'd like to hear during the concert, and I said "Blue Hotel."
If I were ever lucky enough to meet him in person again, I think he'd remember me. It's kind of difficult not to remember a 300-pound broad with hair down to her butt.
He'd say to me: "hey, it's you! What song do you want to hear this time?"
I'd say: "Lie to Me!"
Then every few years we'd meet and I'd ask him to play another of the songs from his second album.
I've come a long way in keeping my temper in check from the days of my youth, but there are a few things that make me really hot under the collar, and then I overreact just a teeny tiny little bit and hit the red button with the nearest sledgehammer, sending the verbal nukes a-flyin'.
One thing that sets me off like nobody's business is the implication that I'm a liar or one of those self-important twits who would create a puff piece minimizing the struggles of a person with a cognitive, physical, or psychological impairment to prove how Deep and Poetical (TM) I am. I have ripped shit more than once on the kind of people who say things like "he's so autistic" or "she's so bipolar" when what they mean is "he's withdrawn and not socially adept" and "she's mercurial." Do NOT use people's health conditions as adjectives. It's really fucking rude. Recently, I fired a real estate agent who believed that questioning my credibility would inspire me to "move quickly." Say whaaaaaat???? In what Universe does that even make sense? I remarked that this guy must have watched American Psycho and thought that it was a business training video. The lack of logic in this line of thinking is astounding.
Having my credibility questioned is a real sore point for me. All my life I've had people imply that I was "just looking for attention" or "being dramatic" or straight-up lying about my symptoms. I have a lot of physical issues that have never been resolved, and the scars on my arms are not the result of "seeking attention," fuck you very much. They are the result of having been in one whole fuckload of psychological pain and feeling like no-one was on my side.
Point of trivia: my ex-husband has Asperger's syndrome and I have bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder. This combination proved to be oil and water. He is one of my great friends in this life and I have been very worried about him as he is having some serious health issues. But a marriage between such polar opposites in the neurodivergent spectrum proved to be a volatile combination and not sustainable.
Our son is autistic and has ADHD. He's strikingly intelligent, but his way of thinking and problem solving does not jibe with the modern education system. He learns by doing and is incapable of learning by reading textbooks. Yes, he can read. He is a prolific reader of the likes of Roger Zelazny (whose works I sometimes have trouble wrapping my brain around), Fred Saberhagen, Kurt Vonnegut, C.S. Lewis, Arthur C. Clarke, and J.R.R. Tolkien. He simply is unable to conform to the textbook-and-lecture style of learning.
I feel like the world is missing out on a lot of great talent by insisting that everybody look alike and dress alike and think alike and talk alike. The Stepford Wives was not an instruction manual.
One of the things that I loved about AC/DC, outside of their badass marriage of the blues to garage rock, was the fact that these cheeky-ass working-class bastards gave the middle finger to propriety at every turn. This doesn't mean they believed in being mean and stomping on other people. They themselves had been bullied and belittled and had quite enough of it. They were speaking up for the "mongrels", for the "ugly" people, for the people who had been told that they would never amount to anything because they were weird and different and not conventionally attractive.
They were not a band for the ever upper-class high society. They were a band for the outcasts, like me. So, when I stood up for them when people started accusing them of "devil worship," I got pigeonholed as a devil worshiper too. It was pretty funny in retrospect. I went around throwing devil horns and evil grins at the idiots spreading the rumors. I was probably the biggest excitement they had in their narrow-minded lives.
Fun's fun, but the reality is that I always felt bad for these guys who really weren't doing anything wrong. I had a particular affinity for Malcolm Young, because he was painfully shy (like I am by nature), because he tended to be depressive (gee, I wouldn't know anything about that, I'm just your dyed-in-the-wool ray of fucking sunshine), and because I could see that he was actually a lot more sensitive than he let on.
I have to confess that I was a bit jealous of the powerful bond of friendship that Malcolm had with Angus. Not everyone is lucky enough to have the other half of their soul born in the same lifetime. Forget having the other half of your soul be your guardian angel. Having them be your best bud is the way to roll!
In truth, most soul mate relationships I've observed have been platonic rather than romantic. Too much is made of the romantic soul mate bond.
In fairness, I think that (romantic) love stinks, so take my previous statement however you wish. Take it with a couple of grains of sea salt. I use sea salt in my cooking. I recommend it.
All this is leading up to something. Bear with me.
I honestly think that there is a degree of elitism in the insistence on rigidly adhering to certain concepts. People who do not have access to higher education don't get to learn the niceties of iambic pentameter (I didn't even know what the hell that was until I was in my 50's) or what the hell ever.
I didn't know the difference between a Haiku and a Senryu until I was in my 50's. I just liked the 5-7-5 pattern that I learned in the third grade or thereabouts and I enjoyed using it to express my dumb and worthless thoughts.
There's a lot of shit that I still don't know. It doesn't mean that I don't have the right to express my shit.
Similarly, there are a lot of musicians who are self-taught, who didn't have access to higher musical education, and, frankly, a lot of the time I like their work better than the works of those who have been properly trained. For instance, Chris Isaak (who, by the way, is an incredibly cool person) can't read music. He couldn't tell you what a pentatonic scale looks like, but if you were to play one for him, he would play it right back at you, embellish on it, and turn it into a really amazing song.
The slaves who sang the heart-rending spirituals on which the blues (a.k.a. the backbone of modern music) is based certainly did not have access to higher education about music or poetry. They sang to comfort themselves and their fellow slaves. They sang to convey messages. They did not express themselves in a "proper" fashion, but they damn well expressed themselves. They told their truth. They told their stories. And they had every right in the Universe to do both, propriety be damned!
As well, the idea that using profanity shows a lack of intelligence is elitist fuckery, and I don't have a whole lot to say to anyone who adheres to that foolish line of thinking.
I think I would have thrown myself from a precipice long ago if it weren't for the rule-breakers and "mongrels" of this world. I couldn't bear the idea of being shut in a room with a bunch of hoi-polloi. Pair me with the proletariat any day.
I do like to share my work, and for a while, it seems to go well enough. But I invariably learn the lesson that my truth is not pretty or polished enough and I am not sweet and sunny enough, and I end up saying "fuck it" and oozing back down the back alley from whence I crawled forth in the first place.
I will never be acceptable. For the most part, I think that's a good thing. But it does get kind of lonely, so now and then I go against my own rule about not engaging and I engage. This is generally a mistake.
Live and learn. Again and again and again.
Now I have to unruffle my feathers so I can prepare the latest Carnal Invasion manuscript for publication via my seedy little company, Naughty Netherworld Press, purveyors of high-quality Kindle smut. These are supposed to be gleeful romps featuring a group of randy, shapeshifting aliens having a go with elementals, humans, vampires, werewolves and such, not a heaping helping of angry argleblargh by a pissed-off editor. I need to switch gears toot sweet.
~Cie~
Cracks me up every time. I did see an interview later where Malcolm revealed that the director for this set of videos behaved like a drill sergeant and they couldn't wait to get away from him. Angus spent the entire interview doubled over with laughter. Reporters had a tendency to interview the brothers separately because when they were together they tended to start smirking and chortling about some joke that only they were in on, and one couldn't get much useful information out of them.
I am aware that this post does not fit in with the NaPoemADayWriMo bit.
I'm downward spiraling and I need this little elephant to cheer me up.
If you need a little elephant to cheer you up, you can look at this little elephant too and think: "The rest of my life may be a steaming pile of manure, but damn, that is one very cool little elephant!"
