Date: Tue, 30 Sep 1997 09:04:36 -0400 From: a calloused shadow Subject: Filler: Reintroduction (Re: Today's poem: After The Equinox) Is it too early to celebrate? .. as I work through the dim part of the day, through the night and watch the sun rise over the deck, I skim through my mail every few hours. It piles up quick, I retrieve a hundred messages 4 or 5 times during the day.. most of which is work related, technical mailing lists, comments/questions/suggestions from our web sites.. but writer's mail comes too.. it gets sorted on arrival into its respective folders, where it usually stays for days at a time without being noticed. Unfortunately I've read nothing from the writers list (or more specifically understood anything I've managed to read through) for many months.. my diet has consisted of technical manuals and texts from which I attempt to learn new programming languages, web design techniques and how to use the ever evolving internet.. my shelves are now filled with overly thick books written for the "advanced" user, and I page through them daily. Creative writing, fiction (although some of the "facts" presented manuals could be debated), poetry, prose, etc.. has made no sense to me as of late.. I once could read a thousand pages in a day (given the time) once through and take in the full sense of the story.. I could see the story.. and understand what the writer was writing about.. recently, its a jumble of words.. just words, no structure, no meaning... reading a poem or story a hundred times would leave me with no more understanding of its meaning or message than reading it for the first time. this.. along with lengthening days has brought on a darkness deeper than the one outside my window as I work each night.. a feeling that I've somehow lost a talent I once never thought of as special or even necessary. I read over old writings.. wondering where the images came from, the ideas, the words.. and I desperately try to write.. one line.. but it seems as though the lines are gone, my minds drifts to web sites and newsgroups. and then the dreaming stopped.. those who have never awaken with no lingering memories of a dream can begin to understand how empty it is.. nothing.. only the day presents itself, no odd/mysterious metaphors to ponder, no memories to shortly (but vividly) relive.. -- I took a break today.. got my mail and sorted through the work-related pieces, and decided to give writers another try.. just yesterday I cleared out every writers mailbox, over 400 messages in every box.. (being unable to read through one message I couldn't imagine what it would take to wade through thousands.) upon opening my filler box I say Today's Poem: After The Equinox.. having most of my work caught up I decided to give it a try.. hoping maybe it would be simple enough for even me to understand.. I read it and read it again.. then once more and upon the fourth time through it began to make sense.. I found the words, then the meter and I began to see the poem... the story.. I've read through it now 8 or 9 times and I can clearly watch the scene, I can see the redwings, watch the seasons change.. I dont know if there is some hidden meaning, some deeper point, but the surface is visible where just yesterday the words would've beeen meaningless.. is it time to celebrate, maybe not just yet, but I think I've started on the road to recovery (if I can safely use that cliche).. I dusted off a novel I started roughly 8 months ago and I'm going to try to finish it ("Another Road Side Attraction" - Tom Robbins).. and I may even read through some of the subs sitting here.. -- upon re-reading this, I think it is a poor excuse for a reintroduction. However unstructured, non-linear and random it may be it is still far from the prose like quality of my former writings.. yet, it is something.. I will participate as a writer eventually.. but I think it will take some time.. and for those who may have read (or may read in the future) my recent submission (submitted on one of those not so happy nights), I'm still not entirely sure what it is either... jacob - a reader for now - =+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "I don't see how poetry can ever be easy... Real poetry, the thick dense intense complicated stuff that lives and endures, requires blood and sweat; blood and sweat are essential elements in poetry as well as behind it." - Edward Abbey =+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=