Can A Writer Be Seen In Words?

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Abstract

t. But there is a vulnerability in these words that borders on self-pity?I am ready to undergo a reorganization of events. In doing so, I must find a tongue with which to utter what I once knew but could not say. I think my efforts might be described as the effort to bring the whole ugliness into a harmonious and coherent union, out of which will emerge a good guy.At any rate, a better guy.Of course, I cannot write the bad guy out of my memory.What has been lost is all the brief notations, those thousands of things all of us recall in a flash; the smile of a girl from the window of a passing bus, which might seem inconsequential at the moment it happened, yet lives in my mind and heart forever. Then again, the streets in summer, forgotten bookshops, Parisian hats,

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all inconsequential, memories falling on the cobbled stones of old age, scraping skin and bruising bones in a way this old man never thought about.Where does love live for so long after it is forgotten?Abandoned under a thousand stars, inside the emptiness of a running man with his dirty deeds, wanting a world so fine, fighting against dragons of steel, harpoons with grenades, killings so barbaric that love licked red on his memory and fled on waves hurtling shoreward.What killed the boy to become a man? I had a mother and a father, but love was not enough. I will one day make my peace with regret.Until then I’m trying to find the good guy.Poetry is not the solution.See me, then. I’m no longer that boy of ten.</article></body>

Or is he hiding in the spaces between the words?

Image: Author

I stand before your eyes in the shape of words, but you do not see me. You read through me as if I were the air you breathe. Is there a lack of substance to this ruined writer?

I have an incomplete memory, a blankness stored in the spaces of time, but living with a desire to be recalled, any small part of it. Without its fullness, finding a way back is difficult. I own only what memory is available.

I begin to want to start over. Find a language to tell my life’s shape, its colour, the way it once felt. But there is a vulnerability in these words that borders on self-pity?

I am ready to undergo a reorganization of events. In doing so, I must find a tongue with which to utter what I once knew but could not say. I think my efforts might be described as the effort to bring the whole ugliness into a harmonious and coherent union, out of which will emerge a good guy.

At any rate, a better guy.

Of course, I cannot write the bad guy out of my memory.

What has been lost is all the brief notations, those thousands of things all of us recall in a flash; the smile of a girl from the window of a passing bus, which might seem inconsequential at the moment it happened, yet lives in my mind and heart forever. Then again, the streets in summer, forgotten bookshops, Parisian hats, all inconsequential, memories falling on the cobbled stones of old age, scraping skin and bruising bones in a way this old man never thought about.

Where does love live for so long after it is forgotten?

Abandoned under a thousand stars, inside the emptiness of a running man with his dirty deeds, wanting a world so fine, fighting against dragons of steel, harpoons with grenades, killings so barbaric that love licked red on his memory and fled on waves hurtling shoreward.

What killed the boy to become a man? I had a mother and a father, but love was not enough. I will one day make my peace with regret.

Until then I’m trying to find the good guy.

Poetry is not the solution.

See me, then. I’m no longer that boy of ten.