Coins under couch cushions

It feels like I have been talking or thinking about personal projects for a long time now. From taking classes, to writing in the mornings, to staring out the window while listening to Almoldovar soundtracks, somehow, I've accumulated satchels of content. I've been so busy sprinting forward that I forgot to stop and look at what I've gathered along the way. Some poems may be discarded or reused or revamped, but they're here.

Penelope Trunk wrote a post about happiness and self-discipline, where she postulates that making a routinized change in behavior, doing one positive thing daily, whether exercising or managing finances, can snowball and spillover into other aspects of your life. She cites a study from Baumeister, who found that students who walked with a book on their head to fix their posture ended up eating better, studying harder, and sleeping more.

If you feel like something is missing, isn't quite right or just looking for a change or investigation inwards, I highly recommend The Artist's Way (the premise being that everyone is creative, you don't have to be a writer, actor, painter, etc.) by Julia Cameron.

One of the 'obligatory' rituals of the self-taught course is writing daily morning pages. This routine purge has has helped me regurgitate lodged subconscious items, expose hidden desires and fears, and clean out the mundane: things to do listed, noted and offloaded. It clears the sea of mental clutter to make room for creative oysters below.

There's always further to travel, but it feels good to know that you're moving forward, and not just turning on a relentless sushi conveyor belt.

Fighting for the core (a process of writing)

It's a struggle sometimes to get to the heart of meaning, or what you mean to say, who you are; the process of identifying and honing your voice, your way of seeing and writing about the world. At times I find layer cake instead - sponge white moist layer upon layer, camouflaging meaning, which is further complicated by the voice of inner critics (harsh, immature and heckling interruptions). This poem attempts to capture this process...

The unraveling
I want to rip off the clothes
on all my words until they stand there
stark Bic blue pen naked
revealing the bare and unabridged truth
(letters stand shivering)
I want to rip out flowers
tangled in muddy patches, roots digging into dampness
and pluck each petal one by one
there is no room for dressing, ornament
I want to break down each construct
So carefully built, layer pressed upon layer
bricks laid for years, slowly to rise to a lopsided castle
that envelopes and protects all in its walls
I want to unwrap and marvel
at the surprise of unexpected tempos
unleashed like hunting dogs
intoxicated by the scent of wild rabbits
I will strip slowly, gloves landing first
on laminated wood floors
undress, undo, uncover
until peach flashes
like headlights on a cold, tortuous highway
words like Russian dolls cover each other
a tight embrace
painted meaning lost in shells
chambers that camouflage and season
being and intention
words my fair weather friends,
play games on the rain with polka-dot umbrellas
covering me from piercing stares
bare all or fade away
comfortably into the background
authenticity is the grain that exists
lodged inside wondrous fruit
Fuck me, I'm taking a bite
I'm tearing it apart
shaking letters down
finding the expression locked inward
flushing out inner critics
losing stage costumes, rhinestones and pearls
until I stand
wet, dripping, naked
in the middle of an empty stage
without a part to play
on display
in the midnight circus