MORTAL WOMBAT WOUNDS

Dear Friends,

How have you been?

I will tell you I've been fine, though it's much more complicated than that. I tend to check in here when I am indeed feeling fine. But as you can tell from the sizable gaps between posts--I am often not fine. Or just very busy. And I will let you go on thinking I am "just very busy"…way too busy to trifle with a personal blog. Jeez--what am i? Twelve?

Yes. Sometimes I am 12. And that is not a terrible thing. 

The terrible thing is when I'm 112.

112 is a stifling attic. An indigo corner. A tragic nursery. A kitchen fire. A swimming pool choking on algae. A garden of sandspurs. A tool shed stocked by a sociopath. A bathroom w/ no hand sanitizer wall-papered with mirrors, floored in knee-high shag carpet and flooded in fluorescence.

It's not pretty. And still…I'm making it sound better than it is (with the shag carpet and all…)

The good thing is--I really have been busy with some pretty exciting stuff. But it's not introspective enough for me to just rattle off a list of shit I've been doing. That is not why I created this blog. 

FRIENDS, as you know I decided to get serious about writing in early 2012. That is when I started taking all my old (and new) Vogon poems---many of them written live right here in the Octo Diary---and crafting them into fine polished turds that "some editor somewhere would surely love." And I sent many of my beloved poems out into the world via Submittable.

I did the same with my short stories in 2014.

At first I got only rejections. Then I got some feedback that was encouraging. Then I had some success getting a few poems published online.

I actually got much better feedback on my fiction. Unfortunately when my mind crashed last year I was unable to handle fiction-writing so I concentrated on poetry, thinking "Why do I love poetry so much? It is such a useless, irrelevant thing. A dead art. But I will use it to keep my mind alive until I'm able to work on stories again." 

Well guess what? Poetry is NOT a dead art! There are exciting things going on in the poetry world that make politics look like a panda exhibit. There are more poetry journals than ever, and more talented writers than ever.  (I say "than ever" as if I've been alive forever & know exactly how many poets have always existed. Excuse my hyperbole.)

I am blown away by the "competition" out there. I don't like to think of fellow poets as competition, but unfortunately they are.

Young Ginsberg (drawn in 2012 when writing was a pure joy)

For awhile (since 2012 at least) I have been aware that publishers are making more of an effort to give voice to poets who were marginalized in times past. I have seen many requests for works by people of color, LGBTs, and yes, even women (as a minority group). This didn't phase me at all. Hell, I love to read good poems by anyone & everyone. And I have read many GREAT POEMS by all colors and genders and shapes of people in print and online.

Recently this "political correctness" in the publishing world---and no doubt the high visibility of writers & publications on the internet---has resulted in a sort of smack-down between 

a) people of color (black/brown/yellow/aubergine)

b) feminists (people of clitoris) 

c) white guys (people of pink penis) 

d) editors (people of red pen) 

e) people of faith (religious, ya know) 

f) others (people of opinion)

I won't get too detailed but let me say…it ain't pretty. Though it is exciting. Poetry Wars. World of Poetrycraft. Mortal Poembat. This is what I always dreamed of when I said I wanted to change the world with words!! Alas, I think I am no longer battle-ready. Would I be honored to fight in the war of the words if I needed to? If I was drafted by some Publisher-in-Chief and my nerves were as savvily sympathetic as they once were, and not the tangled string of Xmas lights they are now? Yes I would.  

Whose side would I fight on though? I was born female and will always be a feminist, but I was a 3rd wave feminist (ie, a fun feminist) and feminism is back to being deadly serious. I think. 

I was supposed to start HRT* today, so I'm now deadly serious about identifying as a trans man. And I'm white. But I'm not angry about others having a voice, so I probably would not be allowed in the special white guy forces unit. 

I don't think I could be included in any of the other 4 factions either. I'm definitely not an editor. I may just be f) a person of opinion. We all are, after all. And I'm happy to remain on the sidelines for now.

(I'd like to know where all the reclusive surrealists have gone? Away from the internet I guess.)

I feel like I'm just a little too ripe for perhaps the most interesting literary era since the Beats. And that makes me cry tears of GenX remorse.

Some kind of post-nuclear insect 

I've decided to retreat from writing-to-be-published for awhile, and return to just writing for me. For fun. For the love of fucking writing!!! I'm pretty saturated with the noise of writing now. I remember when writing brought me peace and it has become the exact opposite of that.

When I'm rested and ready i will join the fray again, and I'll work even harder to have my lonely, gender dysphoric hobbit voice heard. So… look forward to seeing more new (and old) Vogon poems here this Fall.

Speaking of old!!! Here are a few automatic verses written in the months before 9/11 ---

Birds fly 

As big as planes

To a glass nest

Secured from the public eye

[Jan 2001]

Airlines desperation throes

Crash landing into barbed-mesh-

Nail-split ruins

Fractures bone & metal & even glass

Then fills a colony ship

With metaphysic travelers

[Mar 2001]

The sky spoke

Meningitis megaphone blaring down streets

Hollow vertebra terror

We never made it to NYork that day

And the floor of the world

Opened like jaws below your feet

[May 2001]

I wanted to see everyone's face break

After optic nerves or ear canal witnessed truth

Hate. Prejudice. Violence.

Blinders always in place during

The most dangerous game

I see history distort &

Wonder what happened all along

Explosion

An ocean of wisdom

Universe graveyard

We're next

[Sept 4, 2001]

As it fades from the forefront of the media, I will never forget the man-made horror of that day. From each life lost, to the ongoing international crisis that ensued…it haunts.

*******

*I didn't start HRT today due to circumstances out of my control. I take it as a sign that it's not quite the right time.

A little cartoon I drew at the time of the flag fiasco