Joan Of Arc IS Dead And I'm Old
I sit down to write something very specific and it slips away from me. I tell myself it doesn't matter because I don't write fiction anyway. (Maybe this is why.) Doubt makes me ask if I have value as a writer if I can't tell a story. I can never begin. I tried writing in my personal journal to scratch the beginnings of an idea that's been bugging me at the edges of my burnt brain blowing the corners off of my comfort. I opened up the page where my dreams sprawl in discord and strange tenderness, even with the dead so near every single one. I wrote a sentence, and felt empty. Drained like the great reservoires of California.
I want to change something- I want to be felt- I want to wield prose like a sword that can cut through the bullshit and dissect a beating heart. I want to expose, rip down, build up, and heal with this communication we've been burning for as long as we've been recording it. I want to wear a thick armor of words and march into the belly of war to kick the living shit out of evil.
Joan of Arc is dead and I'm old.
It boils down to impotency.
Where do I belong?
Why have I got no stories?
I want the power of the book in my bones.
I want to steal your soul through the tiniest aperture.
I want to light a thousand candles for the truth.
What is it the universe is asking of me? I know it wants something from me, that I have been asked to act and yet I don't know how to answer. Every direction I turn looks consumptive.
Pale like moonlight but less romantic.
It's waiting for an answer. From my pen. From my skin. From my super-suit.
Joan of Arc is dead and I'm old.
Heroes made of silk are nothing more than maiden dreams.
The leach field is wide open.
Tell me all that is possible.
Tell me all you hear away across the water.
Endless and fathomless like a mirror of the boundaries of the human heart.
You may sleep while I try to answer the dark.
I want to change something- I want to be felt- I want to wield prose like a sword that can cut through the bullshit and dissect a beating heart. I want to expose, rip down, build up, and heal with this communication we've been burning for as long as we've been recording it. I want to wear a thick armor of words and march into the belly of war to kick the living shit out of evil.
Joan of Arc is dead and I'm old.
It boils down to impotency.
Where do I belong?
Why have I got no stories?
I want the power of the book in my bones.
I want to steal your soul through the tiniest aperture.
I want to light a thousand candles for the truth.
What is it the universe is asking of me? I know it wants something from me, that I have been asked to act and yet I don't know how to answer. Every direction I turn looks consumptive.
Pale like moonlight but less romantic.
It's waiting for an answer. From my pen. From my skin. From my super-suit.
Joan of Arc is dead and I'm old.
Heroes made of silk are nothing more than maiden dreams.
The leach field is wide open.
Tell me all that is possible.
Tell me all you hear away across the water.
Endless and fathomless like a mirror of the boundaries of the human heart.
You may sleep while I try to answer the dark.
Comments (8)
Honestly.. I have to say your words lead me to believe that you are here to tell the stories rather than make them up.
Connecting with people.. finding the things that make their life quirky, interesting and uniquely theirs then sharing that with the word, maybe that is your call.
You most certainly are a writer. I can't see you as a fiction writer though.. you words seem to gain strenth through their connection to the reality around you.
Kind Regards
Belinda
Posted by simply.belinda | May 4, 2009 2:12 AM
Posted on May 4, 2009 02:12
I agree with Belinda. You most certainly are all of those things you mentioned above (except for being old). You have a magical way with words and a powerful way of bringing interest to everyday life through your words. You may not write fiction, but I honestly enjoy hearing about you and your experiences better than I think I would fiction. It feels more real and makes the connection deeper. You are incredible and I hope you believe that!
Posted by Kim | May 4, 2009 10:27 AM
Posted on May 4, 2009 10:27
The part about the universe asking something of me but not knowing how to answer really resonated with me. I have a lot of the same feelings as you about writing.
Posted by Sara Furch | May 4, 2009 7:31 PM
Posted on May 4, 2009 19:31
Great blog.......now, feel I need to say that I am a vegetarian who eats eggs occasionally too....I got a bit confused....you do too? Or is that the flesh that you don't eat....anyway...enjoying the blog loads....will be back for more...can't believe I haven't read it before. Best wishes from Berlin from Cesca (aka Bowhaus!)
Posted by Cesca | May 5, 2009 2:58 PM
Posted on May 5, 2009 14:58
Oops....posted that in the wrong darn place...sorry!
Posted by Cesca | May 5, 2009 2:59 PM
Posted on May 5, 2009 14:59
I have been following your blog for awhile now and just wanted to say hi. Your words will come in their own time and be what they feel they need to be.
Posted by Laura | May 5, 2009 5:02 PM
Posted on May 5, 2009 17:02
Belinda said it best...your keen intuition in regards to the people around you are what set you apart...and your insights are what make you so compelling to read...
Posted by Jay | May 5, 2009 11:26 PM
Posted on May 5, 2009 23:26
Cesca- I know you from Riana's blog and flickr pages...right?! I'm so happy you came by here to say hello! Yes, I'm a vegetarian that eats eggs. I don't think I realized you were too.
Thank you all for your encouragement. I think it's natural for each of us to question our path and direction from time to time. I try not to obsess too much but there are times when I feel like I must not be a proper writer if I can't write a story. But the fact that you come to read what I do have to say is gratifying and helps keep me grounded in the job at hand which is really to just be the writer I am and work at getting better all the time.
Posted by angelina | May 6, 2009 8:58 AM
Posted on May 6, 2009 08:58