I got to thinking about my files of all sorts of writing – understand, I’ve been writing since I was 9 years old in third grade – and wanting to see them (well, some of them) again. Even share them. So – why not? – I’m starting to bring them to the Internet.
These will be writings scattered throughout my LJ – new pieces, recycled movie reviews, archived e-mails, whatever from wherever – talking about stuff in my past. I’ll add updates (“Present-day Notes”) when appropriate. The entries will be behind cuts because they’ll often be long; I’ll also tag them to organize them. (I don’t plan to tag my other entries. My over-organizing anal-ity knows some limits.)
To inaugurate this celebration of me, below is a standard exercise for any writer: attempted poetry! Inspired by behavior at a party, I wrote this the winter of 2002-2003:
That which brooks no argument
Your senses deadened from the endless buzz –
Speaking wounded words (low quality)
That refuse to mean the things you meant
And dart, unfiltered, out your mouth, because –
Perhaps a part of you was simply waiting for release
To jump past being “sensible” and spray sentences like spit
Or vomit up some ugly thoughts, to get them out of you
– But the taste, harsh and bitter, left you scared: you scurried past a feeling of peace
With rough, rushed speech that echoed from walls of your moody pit
And illness you were willing to stew yourself in reared back up and swallowed you anew
Leaving you trapped within your own
Apocalyptic drunken certainty –
This poem © Christopher Walsh, 2003. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.