She Journeys

the secret symbolism of bees

The new Nickelback song is on the Bear... I don't think much of the lyrics (bordering on trite) but I have to admit when the chorus comes on I feel a little bit of a lump in my throat. Cheese! I suppose "every memory of lookin' out the back door, got my photo album spread out on my bedroom floor, it's hard to say it, time to say it, good-bye, good-bye" resonates with this overwhelming attachment I have to my own past. Heh. As I write this, the new song on the radio goes: "you'll never find out, you'll never see, if you don't break out, and let it be, letting go, letting go, now, letting go, letting go, it's all about letting go, letting go, it's your way out".

But, hello, it's not exactly easy.

I was offered a couple of compliments in class today, from two of my friends. Well, one friend, and another by proxy. I love compliments, I do -- I love that heady rush of pleasure a pleasing word affords. But, for the last few months, I've found any kind word about my writing just sends me into a downward spiral of self-doubt, for my craft itself hasn't been all that kind to me, of late. I haven't written an actual poem since May, and I feel the pain of it. In fact, the major reason I started this blog was so that I would have an outlet for my creative drive, a medium slightly less intimidating than a blank piece of paper, where I can stretch my muscles without HAVING to break into a full run. Even this little bit of writing makes me feel just a smidgen less of the failure I feel when I've done no writing at all.

I think part of my problem is that I am unable to distill my emotions, ending the day with only the most poignant of experiences to speak of. Instead, I find that when I sit down to write I have three dozen different ideas, images, feelings, etc. all clamoring for space in the forefront of my creative consciousness. How do I find time enough to devote to them all? That perfect windy day stripping the trees of their summer garb, the man whose name I long to know, the mother whose addiction is a burden becoming more and more my own to bear, a blind man walking past the bus depot with a guitar slung over his shoulder, the reality of death, that finality, and the question of a god, and... the absolute joy of a perfect song.

I was thinking about Hawksley today (more like cursing him for not playing a *real* concert for us) and pulled out his book of poetry, since I haven't looked at it in awhile. This part has been and always will be my very favourite bit:

Isadora, I'm your earth-bound candy treat. I'm simple. I'm the one
who needs a snorkel to breathe underwater. I'm the one with a wagon-load
of shoe polish and peas. I'm all appetite and envy. I'm all for you,
strapped by tightly wound ropes to fire and stones. I'm brisk, winter,
lemon icicles melting to drop on your tongue. I know the dance
movies and the destinations but long for the journey with you.

I've been reading, intermittently, the script and film diary of Emma Thompson's from when she did Sense and Sensibility (one of my favourite movies), and the journal she kept during the making of the movie is actually quite funny. Reading it gives me even more of a respect for her and her abilities, and makes me think that she must be an enjoyable individual to know 'in real life'. Plus, I love hearing the insights and comments regarding Kate Winslet, whom I absolutely love, in this movie, and in everything she does -- I think she is practically perfection.

posted by TriptychChick @ 9:12 PM