In looking at contemporary poet and essayist Lyn Hejinian, I find the passages in her landmark piece called "My Life" reminded me of the journals I used to keep about 10 years ago. I had read a book (I believe it may have been Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, but I’m not positive) that provided strategies for eliminating creative blocks in your life. Each night, before I’d go to bed, I’d sit in my studio and faithfully write a minimum of three pages before going to sleep. I never had a preconceived idea of what I would write about, only that I would write. Some nights, words came easy, while others were torture. Looking back on some of my writing, I’m struck by the rawness, the sadness, the vividness of memory and also the randomness. It is those “random” writings that are most interesting and sometimes humorous – you could tell that it was when I was beginning to relax and almost fall asleep while writing – some passages would flit from one subject to another and then inject phrases or sentences that were sometimes seemed meaningless or unintelligible. Someone reading and not knowing me would most certainly have thought I was on some kind of hallucinogen.
We were asked to construct a poem in the style of Hejinian, creating a line for each year of our age.
In my interpretation of Hejinian’s style of writing, I
attempt to retain some of the random or “stream of consciousness-styled”
thinking I find myself absorbed in. (In
46 lines)
That Incessant Itch
Sitting in front of the television as a toddler, I had the
most entertaining babysitter around. Hours and hours I’d sit….mesmerized…at
least until the “Sewing Lady” came on… a signal to get dad to change the
channel. I never liked her. Soon I was old enough to go outside and play in the
grass. Cool, damp blades tickled my bare toes. I’d wiggle around and dig
deeper, until tiny ants began marching up my ankle, making me jump and squeal.
Birds chirping in the background…as an adult I can distinguish certain species,
naming them as I hear their distinct songs. I’ve always loved nature – humans
are just a miniscule piece of a much larger puzzle. Surroundings envelop us,
sheltering us from the many ills of the world – there’s so much out there to
know and understand; never enough time to do so. Why are we so small? Where are
our voices? My voice has been stifled for a long time. Stoicism runs deep in my
blood…I was brought up to conceal feelings, keep things inside and never show
weakness. Elements like that are used to create impenetrable brick walls –
protection from harm’s way. No one is ever truly protected. Even the best
parents cannot protect their child from all the problems of the world. Why is
everything in the world so muddy? Mud is essentially dirt moistened to a
pudding-like substance, slushing between your toes as you walk through a
puddle. But mud eventually dries, leaving a crusty shell on the skin– like that
chocolate stuff you put on ice cream… just not as tasty. The shell cracks off
when touched, making me itch. Always an itch to scratch – creativity is one of
those itches; persistent and ever present. Right now, the painting behind me
beckons, begging for my attention- to contribute, to pour my soul out on
canvas. The pain of being vulnerable on canvas for me is much greater than
talking about my troubles. I’ve always thought of art as a child…something
birthed from deep inside, bringing the best and worst to the light of day for
all to see. What is seen? Does it matter? Should I care? I’m comfortable in my
solitude; yet crave the presence of others to keep me grounded. The ground is
solid, but sometimes my legs are weak. There’s that “weakness” thing again. Why
does it taunt me? What is it about weakness that’s so hard to deal with? I’ve
learned to accept my faults and embrace my strengths. To not blame myself for
everything. Does this make me a better person? I think my family sees me as
kind of a black sheep – probably similar to my grandmother, who at 19, married
a US Army medic and left her home in England for America. My grandfather came
home first…she followed…..months later on a ship with other war brides. How
long were her travels? I should’ve asked more about her journey while she was
still alive. Did she regret leaving her country? After she died, I discovered
she’d won a scholarship to go to art school, but turned it down. Did she regret
not going? She never said….she instead got married to the man she spent the
rest of her life with. Love was greater than the itch of artistic creation,
apparently. Did she ever feel that itch? She was far too wise to say.
