Crandyman
04-12-2008, 09:30 PM
This isn't exactly a poem but more of a diary entry with poetic inspirations. It was written on April 5th, 2008.
3:54am on a dank and rainy Saturday morning in early April. That is the precise time that I concluded a book I casually started almost five hours before. A novel that was chosen, you could say, not principally by myself but rather by someone that I care about. From what I can gather, this book appears to be highly regarded in terms of quality and power by this individual who has seemingly stolen the pulsating organ which resides on the left side of my chest and whom now holds it deftly in her habitual hands.
They say the best way to get to know someone is to understand their influences. What better way to do just that than to examine what a person chooses to read? When it comes to literary expertise, I can rattle of the greatest Russian authors off the past two centuries and their respective masterpieces. I can also systematically regurgitate the pretentious works that our starved and weathered society have so gallantly strived to label as “distinguishable literature”. I can even quote some Shakespeare; at least enough to convince the novice intellectuals that I am well versed in the great author and playwright.
What I cannot do is lie to myself or deceive myself or trick myself, because in the end, I know I am a fraud. A charlatan masquerading as someone who knows what he wants, knows how to act, and knows how to think. I might know a lot about a lot of things but my ignorance never ceases to amaze me. It is part of the reason why I have to ask people what to read. God forbid I discover anything on my own.
The truth of the matter is I know how to be inspired, that, happens quite often. Where I seem to have a problem is the acceptance of influence. I wish I could pinpoint an influential time, an influential person, or an influential piece of writing. I wish I could say that my life is shaped by someone greater than myself, and in some aspects, I am sure it has been but it is nothing I could recite back to you knowingly. It is something I have sought for a long time and continues to elude me. I don’t have that ‘one thing’ that I can say with any degree of honesty, that has truly molded me as a person. Maybe it will come in time. Maybe it will not come at all.
So now I have come to rely on someone with a better mind than I. What can be more shameful (and terribly pathetic) than having to depend on drawing influence from what somebody else deems as “worthy”? I guess I am beyond the point of caring where my passion comes from just so long as that I have passion. And that is okay by me. I suppose it has to be.
3:54am on a dank and rainy Saturday morning in early April. That is the precise time that I concluded my first Kurt Vonnegut novel. Not because I was told to. Not because I had to. I read it because I wanted to. I read it to honor (no matter how much they refuse to acknowledge its necessity) a person that I care about.
3:54am on a dank and rainy Saturday morning in early April. That is the precise time that I concluded Mother Night by the late Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
“I admire form. I admire things with a beginning, a middle, an end—and, whenever possible, a moral too.”
*Note* - This was going to be a review of the book. Then it became a private message. Lastly it evolved into an honest expression of my motivations. It is nothing more and nothing less. "Why" is the most difficult question created by man but in this instance, in this situation, in this current format-- I have done the best I can at describing that indefinable question. Think of it what you will.
Thanks,
Crandy
3:54am on a dank and rainy Saturday morning in early April. That is the precise time that I concluded a book I casually started almost five hours before. A novel that was chosen, you could say, not principally by myself but rather by someone that I care about. From what I can gather, this book appears to be highly regarded in terms of quality and power by this individual who has seemingly stolen the pulsating organ which resides on the left side of my chest and whom now holds it deftly in her habitual hands.
They say the best way to get to know someone is to understand their influences. What better way to do just that than to examine what a person chooses to read? When it comes to literary expertise, I can rattle of the greatest Russian authors off the past two centuries and their respective masterpieces. I can also systematically regurgitate the pretentious works that our starved and weathered society have so gallantly strived to label as “distinguishable literature”. I can even quote some Shakespeare; at least enough to convince the novice intellectuals that I am well versed in the great author and playwright.
What I cannot do is lie to myself or deceive myself or trick myself, because in the end, I know I am a fraud. A charlatan masquerading as someone who knows what he wants, knows how to act, and knows how to think. I might know a lot about a lot of things but my ignorance never ceases to amaze me. It is part of the reason why I have to ask people what to read. God forbid I discover anything on my own.
The truth of the matter is I know how to be inspired, that, happens quite often. Where I seem to have a problem is the acceptance of influence. I wish I could pinpoint an influential time, an influential person, or an influential piece of writing. I wish I could say that my life is shaped by someone greater than myself, and in some aspects, I am sure it has been but it is nothing I could recite back to you knowingly. It is something I have sought for a long time and continues to elude me. I don’t have that ‘one thing’ that I can say with any degree of honesty, that has truly molded me as a person. Maybe it will come in time. Maybe it will not come at all.
So now I have come to rely on someone with a better mind than I. What can be more shameful (and terribly pathetic) than having to depend on drawing influence from what somebody else deems as “worthy”? I guess I am beyond the point of caring where my passion comes from just so long as that I have passion. And that is okay by me. I suppose it has to be.
3:54am on a dank and rainy Saturday morning in early April. That is the precise time that I concluded my first Kurt Vonnegut novel. Not because I was told to. Not because I had to. I read it because I wanted to. I read it to honor (no matter how much they refuse to acknowledge its necessity) a person that I care about.
3:54am on a dank and rainy Saturday morning in early April. That is the precise time that I concluded Mother Night by the late Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
“I admire form. I admire things with a beginning, a middle, an end—and, whenever possible, a moral too.”
*Note* - This was going to be a review of the book. Then it became a private message. Lastly it evolved into an honest expression of my motivations. It is nothing more and nothing less. "Why" is the most difficult question created by man but in this instance, in this situation, in this current format-- I have done the best I can at describing that indefinable question. Think of it what you will.
Thanks,
Crandy