27 February 2006
reunion blues [3]
I guess one of the most embarassing things for me is thinking about the way I got to TCU and embraced the by-then sentimentalized Beatnik poet lifestyle of the late 1950s - taking drugs, taking road trips, talking talking talking topics both nonsensical and profound and everywhere on the spectrum in between, but I didn't do much writing, only a few poems scribbled that year (among them, a handful that I, amazingly, turned in to my English teacher instead of the essays she asked us to write, and, even more amazingly, couldn't comprehend why she gave me a D for the semester.) Nor did I manage to keep a journal that year - in fact, several years passed before I realized that I could keep a journal and write in it everyday, recording my thoughts, feelings, dreams, observations of the passing scene, ideas for creative projects, rough drafts of stories and poems. Not much of a writer, judging from my production. O but the flame was burning inside, and I'm sorry I didn't learn how to use it, where to channel it, instead I believe that I sought simultaneously to extinguish that blaze and kindle it anew, with frantic applications of alcohol, acid, attitude. Had I been willing to listen and engage, did I have a teacher at TCU who could have showed me what to do?
Thirty-six years later, here I sit, still struggling to write the books that I envisioned writing when I got to college and realized I had things happening inside of me that I could write down and shape into poems and stories and maybe just maybe even a novel, and realizing that this could be my life's work, and I'm still struggling to overcome the bad habits that I developed back when I could have been establishing a solid creative practice just by scribbling a page or two a day. That's what kills me - not the pose or the partying, but the lack of production, and the hypocrisy of adopting the writer's life-style without doing the actual writing.
And I did pretty much the same damn thing during my college junior year abroad in France, lived a lot and wrote very little, although I did keep a journal, only it got lost several years later, in 1980, stolen along with my leather bag, several hundred dollars cash earnings from my Humboldt County pot processing gig, and an ounce of sinsemilla, from beneath my seat in the Parkways movie theater in East Oakland, on the eve of my intended trip to Lafayette, Louisiana to re-connect with a childhood sweetheart. I cancelled the trip, stayed in the Bay Area, and the rest is history, as they say.
I may even have been watching Woodstock, with old UCB classmate (and fellow veteran of Prof. Todd Willly’s revelatory Rhetoric of the Novel course) Peter Smith, in fact: robbed while in the act of sentimentalizing our generation’s collective past.
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