Refuge, Thy Name is Cartoons!

So, yesterday I was describing my life (psuedo-professional, at least) as a continual process of flinging shit against a Teflon wall. You have a lifetime supply at hand, but nothing sticks. By that I mean that I had another meeting with my thesis director, who told me that I was thinking up a lot of lines, but that none of them were working as poetry.

At this point, I'm walking a fine line between anger and despair. The anger part is typical me: as I've told many of my friends, I like to believe that all of my work is divinely inspired, and therefore beyond reproach or revision. Honestly, though, I know that I have a lot to work on, but I like to think that some of the things I'm doing work. After yesterday, though, not so much. I wrote a poem about Hilary Clinton which is now supposed to cut that part out completely (yes, that would be the whole thing) and rewrite it as a poem from the POV of the whale that swallowed Jonah. A poem that was supposed to be nothing but a scene adn reaction to an Octavio Paz poem is now supposed to be about the children who appear in only one line as scenery but are now going to be some sort of protagonists.

I actually dread writing these days. I hate the idea of sitting down and composing anything, because I know that it's not going to work. What used to be my escape and a place of repose has become dirge work. And that's where the despair works its way in. I used to love doing this. I have 196 poems that I wrote when I was just writing for me, because I loved doing it. Now I have to come up with 60 pages and I hate the idea of it, because I hate the idea of having someone disecting it and reworking it to become a better reflection of him. Every workshop feels like poetry by committee, where everyone looks for what's best about his own work in mine. And I need to clarify: when I say "doing it for me" I don't mean using it as therapy or anything; I just mean doing it as something that's fun for me to do and cool to share with close friends, without worrying if it's too whacked out for traditionalists or too traditional for experimentalist or too may words for language poets.

Really, I might be overreacting, but it certainly doesn't feel like it. It feels like I'm just going to wade through the next six months; serve my time, try to get the thesis done and get my degree, then get the hell out of here. To only God knows where, doing God knows what.

At this point, I'm okay with being a mediocre poet. I'm okay. I just need to get this done, and move on. And until then, I am watching Volume 5 of "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," the original series. It is keeping me sane.

Song of the moment: "Life"~Shooter