For the last few months I've been participating in a self-guided class on regaining blocked creativity. The book I use, called The Artist's Way - A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity, is written by a woman named Julia Cameron. While the entirety of the class is quite in depth, part of the process is regaining autonomy over creative mediums you've stymied, for whatever reason, along the way. While my preferred medium for creativity is writing, I know a part of me has always been devoted to performance. Growing up I played in bands, but for the last 5 years or so I've been very drawn to performance poetry. For me, though I write it and am intrigued by it, I've found actually performing it to be a road block I am actively trying to overcome.
Below is a recorded version, as well as a transcript, of a poem I wrote while on the road this past summer entitled "I'm not a Gambler." It's taken me awhile to come to finishing it, but reaching culmination of my work is a new goal I've set while taking this class. Please enjoy my poem, and if you feel so inclined to share this or any of my other posts on your social media platforms, I wouldn't hate it :)
I’m not a gambler. While the specifics may evade, I know my fate has never rested on the dwindling hope bestowed by gyrating reds and blacks, or arbitrary numbers birthed from a back loaded deck.
No, I spend waining moments with prodigality. Numbered, doomed with a date and place their purpose finally ferments a concoction so potent its its existence is consumed in one fell swoop.
You see on paper, purpose seems so straight forward; dreams, ambitions, but does this ink ever spout legs and come to fruition, or does the fermentation process only exist in the Whisky oak barrels labeled and stored with precision in our daydreaming heads. I consume this thought with one quick guilt and privilege lubricated gulp as I lie lengthwise with a limited time lover watching the premium cable in the clouds.
Our heart beats, normally syncopated, are presently in unison, I ponder where does the rift... between ascension and sin come in to allow one to make a mark, and the other to terrorize those with which he or she had dreamed of serving?
Limited time lover rises, obscuring the sun’s shine. She twists her back to crack, 1, 2 times before she dives into the depths of my embrace which I sullenly savor as I know it will be short-lived. Being raised a catholic kid I learned there’s an ever expanding schism between right and wrong, yet these moments right here illustrate this pontificated lesson’s misguidance. As the philosophical cumulus transmutes and preaches, I realize no pages could ever teach us like the free of charge aerosol curriculum we forget is always in abundance above us. Her embrace is the only vessel that guides me past rapid fire thoughts.
As the sun concedes to forthcoming night, only to once again rise, I’ll be alone and it’s in these Isolated instances that we are defined as humans. Fortuitous moments seem hard to expose, yet I was told from a ripe young age we’ll know when we’ve reached a peak or pinnacle. The vindictive calendar bleeds out days with no restraint, and with no visceral pull I’m becoming cynical. Limited-time lover fades into the day’s break, her lips linger like the orange and pinks occurring as the moon acquiesces to whoever oversees gravity’s pay. The sun burns brightly with the last remnants of consecrated fuel. His lover’s labor always ends with their lips locking. Their intwine, so powerful they discolor the sky; unraveling the yolk created by the gods, thus they’ve been doomed to just one touch of their insatiable mouths every 24 hours. I’m tainted by this cosmic display of affection, Here and now I decided I’m not settling till I find an equally powerful embrace, till I see the sun’s equivalent starring into my lunar face. I’m vexed, I’ve only drawn to movement by spirituality or sex but now, I won’t rest, I won't rest until I’m caressed by serendipity’s sagacious hand; thumb to cheek as she speaks, her words through moments I now understand are fortuitous. She tells me fate.. is defined… by these tidal hands….
I lay back in my medially occupied bed, where limited time lover’s scent is scant in ruffled sheets. I revel in my lot as I engulf a lifetime in a single breath... I’m not a gambler, no, I don’t squander numbered days to games of chance.
Photo courtesy of Wall Paper Stock