proximoception | (no subject)

I'm starting to forget things, bang into things, drop things. Not a lot, but these were things I never did until a couple years ago, and now do almost daily. I mean, I was absent-minded, but the Google Within never fed me blanks. Not sure how much of this is just me getting older and how much is my having gone to seed--(caused in turn by happy lovenest living? or by eye worries). I also feel very stupid, but I think I remember feeling that way in prior Septembers also, something about the transition from lazy summer hedonism to uneasy autumn intellection.

Are my poems any good? They're all composed straight onto the journal; inspiration turns to consternation fast with me, transforming in turn to that bizarre, vast self-disgust around the twentieth minute, where ideas curl up and words get terse and random. Looking back at one I tend to like it, remembering the idea I had and the reason that idea matters; but am ignorant of how much of these are in the words themselves, distinct from the memories of writing them.

You have some idea, some interesting mental phantom you want to share, but to get it to the next person-planet you need to hurl it through outer space, where, having insufficient physical integrity, it invariably slumps and twists and arrives frozen in some monstrous meaningless form you yourself wouldn't recognize.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I think your poems are "any good" and you should work on them. They're in a form that it probably takes some courage to attempt in this day and age, and perhaps the carapace for that courage is the lj-direct composition mode which exempts them from the significance of deep, considered, heart-meditated expression. Spontaneity allows deniability. So the hard part will be working on them. Which I never do. But you should.

That's what I feared, that the disavowal was plain from the lines themselves. Sort of the opposite problem to what I described above, where it's a case of too much making it through space, too much slimy organic packing material.

Deep, considered, heart-meditated expression and/or work can really make a man flee and/or vomit, can't they. Thank you for your words.

PS Heartily jealous of your Proustwatch.