The Dissonance of Love

Writing sustains me.  The act of putting pen to paper is, at the end of the day, the only thing that saves me from being the kind of person I dislike; the kind of person who is lazy and intolerant, someone who is unable to convey thoughts, feelings, opinions, and someone who censors themselves to spare others.  Writing allows me to be free.  It gives me purpose and it is an outlet, to purge all of the things that bottle up inside when life is less than forgiving.  I am grateful for the act and art of writing.  It has helped define my character while I am busy creating new ones in prose.  It allows for a unique perspective of the world around me, the people and places, the sounds, smells, tastes and impressions that all lend themselves to my artistic license and stand as inspiration for what manifests on a clean sheet of paper.  

It has been my experience that I write most inexhaustibly when I am happy, or a reasonably hand-drawn facsimile of.  For some writers, being down and out when they create the flesh and blood of their work is essential, for me, it’s when I am content, unbridled of worry, heart and guts (for the most part) whole.  I find it terribly challenging to write when I am less than human, half of myself, heartbroken or full of angst.  I have on occasion sat to write while in this state but always end up throwing the pages away because they were just too strewn and not worth editing.  I am better to wait and gain a little perspective after an upheaval before committing the experience to the page.  Most of what I endure ends up in written form, one way or another.  It’s perfect release and it allows me to ascertain the moral in the wound to restore myself and continue to thrive, in truth and goodness; two things I am a firm believer in.  For the most part, I am relaxed, content to live daily with my chin up, my eyes open and my heart heavily guarded to avoid mistakes that toss me into the rubble where I am unable to work creatively with passion.  One such time is described here in my poem called ‘The Dissonance of Love’.   Written with keen clarity (although the verses may describe otherwise) after a grave mistake was made on my behalf but written when I was able to see the thick, dense forest for the trees:

The Dissonance of Love

Bellicose Brute,

cannon though my chorus

with your mutinous melody

the dissonance of love

is ours.

It is your clever conceit

your pretentious disposition

that bleeds my heart vermilion

the dissonance of love

is ours.

Bellicose Brute,

buoy my brave ocean

with your infinite hubris

unimaginable boldness

becomes you.

I mean to mistrust

the press of your mouth

the urgency of your touch

yet

foolhardiness befalls me.

I mean to suspect

your audacious ability

to fortify and dismantle

my citadel

yet

the pleasures of your kingdom

are unguarded and seductive

and cannot be denied.

Bellicose Brute,

the dissonance of love

is ours

and while you wax and wane

I disappear in the dance of the lost.

**

I believe in writing with an honest heart and a steady hand.  I am in love with language and appreciate every second I am afforded the luxury to write.  I am also, in a most back-handed way, appreciative of the blunders in life that I have sustained because some of the things I have written due to faltering have turned out beautifully and I’m fortunate to be able to see my life mapped out in poems.  There are instances where I feel like I have barely lived yet but when I look back over everything I’ve written I have truly done my share, not just existing as I sometimes solemnly surmise.  Through trials and triumphs, it has been a bumpy ride with stretches of smooth sailing in between, all of which has led me to this entry today, this conversation with you.  We are always right where we are meant to be. 

And in truth, again, Chuck Palahniuk told me once (I think I’ve mentioned it already) that in writing and in life, ‘don’t ever be afraid to look like an asshole’.  There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t recall that quote and try to instill its weight in my travels.  I have appeared as such many a time, especially in the past few years but the finest reprisal is writing it out and setting it free.  It’s the cheapest form of therapy one can buy.  Don’t hate me but I’m a bit of a romantic, even if my heart is tainted with pessimism in my old age.   You’ll see me wax poetic about love throughout my blog, love that has waned and love that remains.  Some of my favorite poems to share at readings are steeped in a time when I was blissful about love (I will share them here as well when the mood strikes) because it feels good to talk about love and promote it, even love that has been lost.  It elevated me once and is part of both my personal and literary journey.  The poems are important to me and are a step closer to whatever is yet to come.  Love belongs to all of us and I look forward to sharing more of mine with you.

In propinquity,

Nic