Does it matter that I have tons of company in my addiction?
Wanting to go on here first thing in the morning reminds me of when I’d reach for a cigarette first thing in the morning, because waking up without one just wasn’t worth it.
What’s neat about working with an audience, is that things change— like the mouse in the maze whose observers were told that this mouse was an exceptional mazer... the ordinary mouse repeatedly was clocked as faster. The actors in a play with a fascinated audience become an even better ensemble. The writer with an audience writes more sincerely, thoroughly.
I remember when I journaled in my youth— you know, the old-fashioned way, whether with leather-bound blank-paged books, or spiral-bound notebooks... When I began to write more and more about what I insisted could never be shared, that’s when the writing became confused, muddled, and filled with so many circular arguments that an acrobat who could hula hoop 50 hoops at a time would trip and fall rapidly if treading upon those pages.
A different sort or art was Poetry. Part confession, part detached observation. Show and conceal in absolutely equal parts. Give an definite image, but take away certainty that the image was truly given—The poet could never be sure who they were presenting material to, after all. If you showed too much and the audience said, "What the hell is that?", could you answer without fear of favorable or unfavorable reception, "This is in my heart."?
Often, the poetry I used to write stepped me away from a situation to a good spot of detachment, a good lookout point. But then I’d sweep evidence of my tracks so no one would know how I’d arrived to a conclusion, lest my reasoning should be questioned. This way the poem stood alone. Unfortunately, so did the poet, because, often, they were written extemporaneously and sent away into clear thin air with the magic of email, with perhaps an audience of one. So not only could my conclusion be lost upon the one person, but also, it was lost to me. I cleared my tracks so well, I couldn't even find where I'd gone to!
Were the moments that led to the poem resolved? Was the poet absolved? Without evidence of the looking point observations, did anyone know this was a mouse who was experienced with mazes? I knew in a way that resolution or absolution were but temporary cheeses: There would always be another reason for resolution or absolution.
But, having mastered the maze, did I also begin to build my own confounded mazes- with every success necessitating a greater build, a greater more monstrous maze?
Is there a memory of a permanent cheese that can stay in your pocket?