I can't sleep.
I'm up pacing my room. I write long emails that I delete. I get up and pace again. I work on the Novel.... You know the problem. That damned coffee. This shit has me so ramped up that I have to get out of the room. I grab my coat and go shopping at Duane Reade for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I'm pacing in the elevator like a caged animal. I'm walking down the street in my sandals like a wild man. The night is beautiful. Cool, but not cold, crisp and clear.
I go shopping for cereal, handsoap, honey, penne, salad dressing and Chef BoyArdee spaghetti and meatballs. As I start to put this stuff away, once I get back to my room, I'm wondering, just what are the ingredients to The Chef's spaghetti and meat balls? But I don't surf to look for it. It's not all that important. What's important is that I can't sleep, and if I can't get any sleep my mind is going to come up with some real weird shit to write on my blog. You know how I get when I start questioning things.
I start up on breakfast, eating Apple Jack, Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Lucky Charms. I wolfed them down in seconds, knowing full well that if I eat all of the blood is going to rush from my brain to my stomach to aid in peristalsis. That's why so many people get sleepy after eating. Hopefully peristalsis works now and knocks my ass out. I think that it was a good idea because my eyelids are getting heavy, I'm actually slowing down on the keyboard, nodding heavily. I was fearful that...
That was all folks. I passed the fuck out. Like blowing out a candle I was gone in a second. Whoosh. I gain consciousness around 10:00, awakened by loud voices in the hallway. Yeah, Paula and her murder of crows. Murder alright, because they're killing me. Somehow I roll over and conk out completely, only to wake up at 11:30, refreshed and ready to go. Go where though. Do you notice that about me? I go nowhere? I stay locked inside of my room, shut out from the rest of the world, and would like to do it even more.
Yes, I've said it. I've got a gaggle of therapists trying to help me otherwise, but I cannot stop the pull of being alone in my little room. I think that's it. It's the environment. I think it's the immediate world outside that makes me the way that I am. New York and her crowds, the ever present press of humanity. There just is no space. When you've been homeless for several years you also resent the utter lack of privacy.
Now I have all of these things, and I chose to commu- nicate to the outside world through my blog, what's the crime in that? I mean, I could be stalking a child, or a woman, holding up elderly people, running an Internet scam. I could be doing a number of things, all in the name of fun, but I'd rather just write. I'd rather put pen to paper and write how I feel, what I feel. I'd rather blow a gasket in my Novel, or pour myself out in poetry to my muse.
Ahhh, my red-headed muse. The real woman that I love. She inspires me, makes me want to live, allows me to withstand any tribulation. I am stronger because of her, I am uplifted because of her, I face every day that I rise because of her. She is my everything. I've come to realize that. I have. I started writing her a poem a day, because she inspires it in me. Every day. My muse comes and off I go, pen to paper, creating, dispensing, expelling. A muse is a powerful thing for writers, poets, any artist. How can you create if she does not arrive and whisper softly in your ear, and put her warm hand on your heart, and MOVE you to produce work. Valuable work, real work.
I know, my 'Fuck You' poem on my last post was not all that hot. I didn't say that all of my poems had to make sense. Sometimes it just the words that make the sense, not a snappy, twisty ending. It doesn't have to be complete, who said that it did? It can be a raggedy mess, a tatter, a rag-a-boo. If that's how you felt when you wrote it, if you want it to make sense, if you want to be clear, or not, then that's what it is. It's your expression and no one can make you change it. No one can tell you that you wrote it wrong, or that you need to write it 'this' way. It was written in the way that the muse has given it to you. It's complete and finished. If you don't like it, don't read it.
That's why I don't correct other people's work. I don't take such a liberty. The muse explained it to them the way that it did. It's up to me if I like it or hate it, but I can't change it. That's their muse talking to them. Peace and love with that. I smile. That to me makes for good poetry. Hearing what people had on their minds when they wrote it, confused shit or not. If I can understand it or not. There are some that I can, and some that I can't. Those that I can't I don't bother reading. That's just how it goes. Those are the breaks. You aren't writing for me, or to me. But that's alright. There is somebody out there that is dying to read you. You're writing to them.
Awwww, what the fuck am I drooling about now. I can't leave shit alone, can I? I have to turn shit over and examine it and grouse over it. I have to give it my slant, as fucked up as it is. I have to say my piece. Unfortunately, I have no one to say it to, or actually I choose not to express my feelings in public. I have a few pen pals that I do write to and cry out in pain or distress. Shit, my life is a tough life. It really is. A lot of people think just because I don't get up and go to work every day that I'm living the life of Riley. Well, I WANT a job to go to every day, and would gladly switch lives with anyone out there. They can live here, in this box, in the Space Pod. Day in day out, afraid to leave its confines. Subject to the whims of the state, lonely, tired, bitter, lost. Try it out sometimes.
I'm going to be awake for a long time tonight. I just had a cup of mud. I think I'll blog and work on my novel...what else is new?Hobobob
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