Reveries of the earliest extant poem extrudes, the ur poem, the poem that launched a thousand bad poems, many of which now live in the deep recesses of my computer and are double-triple password-protected in order to prevent posthumous viewings since many were of a lascivious nature such that I thought I could write the lust out of me, wring out the heavy burden of semen much as the anger-besotted man thinks he can beat the anger out by wailing on his dog.
But it all started off in primeval innocence, cursive script on a Rainbow writing pad:
I want to writeBeing born in June I apparently felt a proprietary interest.
a beautiful sight
I love my month
Later I kept a diary for three months. Like many relationships it ended for ill; the last page was full of recriminations and blame and accusations because it seemed to be all duty and I grew to hate the burden, an irrationality that seems incredibly puzzling now. What did it matter whether I kept one or not? I mean to go back to that three month 5-yr diary and try to piece together what frustration a kid could've felt towards something as benign as a diary. Perhaps it was merely that the cover felt like a binding contract: 5 Year Diary. Perhaps if it was called A One Month Diary I could've felt more at peace, knowing the goal was manageable.
Or maybe it was because it soon became like brushing my teeth. (Fortunately, I've never quit brushing my teeth.)
Ironic too given that now, without any personal stricture, vow or sacrifice, I've written a quadzillion blogposts over the past seven years, though admittedly most of an essay heuristic rather than diaristic one. So too does my home-grown journal grow, although perhaps the secret is updating it weekly rather than daily.
Journals and diaries seem important if only because it's the only time you ignore the censor, perhaps not the best thing to do since the Id is such a thoughtless bloke, but sometimes art can spring only when the superego's sleeping due to fatigue incurred from his tiresome mission.
I normally write on Friday nights but by Thursdays the words begin to burst their houses and the rain falls on just thoughts and unjust thoughts and I feel the duty to express them, to air them, in part just because I like words, I like the cut of their jib, I like the fact that they have long histories, I like that they are like rivers and always have a mouth, a beginning, even if we don't know when exactly or who first uttered it.