some or largely what gave the impetus to spew yesterday’s little rant had to do with the cyclical searches or searches born out of deep doubts as well as remembrances. The same old storms.
Maybe I’m not a poet or writer or half a decent poet or writer. Maybe ten more years of study and practice is called for; maybe twenty more years of study and practice won’t polish these shitty wordsmith labors.
But it sort of doesn’t matter but it sort of does matter because I enjoy it. I almost never like the results but I enjoy the not-knowing; don’t mind trying something that doesn’t work out; but sometimes there’s a moment or a few sentences that remind me what I want to do; what I want the words to do. they leave those few sentences and suddenly the cliff is up ahead and there’s no way to put on the brakes and there we go crashing on the black-rock-rocky shore.
So then I turn to other things: like I lately got hold of a guitar and I really like the guitar and really the same motivation comes in as the writing motivation: see all the ways to do any one thing and there is no one right or wrong but whatever works best for the one doing it.
But to find that best thing calls for sampling everything; and you want to become able enough to recognize where it works and where it doesn’t. Becoming able enough requires hours and hours and months and years of work.
And then it’s like: the more able one becomes or thinks one becomes, the less you want the elites to find it acceptable. The better you get or think you’re getting, the more you want to guide it into an underbelly chamber of underachievement.
Or that’s how I end up thinking. So I wonder: maybe I’m not really a writer. Maybe I’m really more a musician. Because I watched some guitar players on youtube using thumb picks and saw how they can do so much but I’ve never worked much with thumb picks so I got a few thumb picks and have been messing around and it’s really tricky; but once in a while I hit into a few seconds where I feel I’m on the track, in the groove, but then I lose it and want to get back to it, and suddenly several hours have gone by and I could go for several hours more – just messing around with one tune. But all I have to do is glance at something I’ve written and I can see the written stuff comes much easier for me – though I do not say it has any quality – or I hope it doesn’t have much quality, at least not the quality the snooty literary crusts would find acceptable.
So that’s when I find myself sliding down the muddy slope and ending up in these places that talk about multiple intelligences and I try one of their tests and the intelligence they call Musical is always at the top. So then I think: okay so for poetry the sound of the words and the rhythms of lines sit high in importance, so maybe that’s why the music is high though I’m not such a hot guitar player and poetry seems to come easier – oh but no. Poetry goes under linguistic intelligence.
Oh and then they have spatial intelligence, which concerns images and such. Like you’d think, so if someone comes out strong on the spatial intelligence they might find themselves attracted to poetry and writing since imagery is very important there. Oh no. Again, poetry belongs to linguistic intelligences. It goes on that way.
The problem isn’t that someone concocted a theory. It’s fun to concoct theories. I concoct theories all the time. But I know they are concoctions and I’d never allow educational facilities to get hold of them for the purpose of poisoning minds that are green and open in trust.
Well I lost the main train of thought. Try later.