Cold Beauty

I awoke today

I awoke today and abandoned writing. I knew in my waking state that I had no talent and no hope. I groaned and rose to meet another day. I drank my first coffee and ate a bagel.  I knew I was a writer now and would push my way through the irrelevancies and annoyances and defeats that are life. I floated now, buoyed only by the need to write and the tantalizing small respites of daily life.

-30-

I lie listening to rain on a roof at the end. Parts of my body ache and hurt. The sound of rain soothes and matches my heart. Life, as the large multitude of those wiser than I have noted, is a funny business. I am an untenable character in this, condemned to see holistically in a place where others do not. I see those walking through this forest of dark and light in all their wonderful complexity while others seem to see only narrow paths. I see dips and curves and sun and rain and warmth and cold that chills the soul. I wonder at this curse visited on me to see the whole.

Round Pegs and Square Holes

   

I am a misfit. There, I said it. I cannot recall a time in my life where I felt easy in this or any place. I observed, quietly. Slowly I learned to build a cone of invisibility about my heart and soul.  I wrote poetry when young. I stopped then began all over when old.  This review of English World War 1 poets  resonates - as it stresses that the misfitery of the poet's heart transcends mere circumstance.

https://www.h-net.org/reviews/showrev.php?id=44522

Beginning (my incoherent mind)

The sun glinted on the river. The water’s surface was still, but Simon could see deep currents telling lies about its placid face. The sun felt warm, delighting the cool breeze that touched his body.  He could hear voices, calling, laughing, teasing on the other side.  A house looked out from a balcony, added precariously by a home owner, holding figures happily touching and playing with each other.

I can't decide what to do with this paragraph.  Another story, same character? Or one of the alternate versions of The Man who fell from the Sky'......Hmmmmm....... maybe that's it......hmmmmm

Metadata

Experienced authors know all about metadata. I was only vaguely aware of its use and importance. Mostly I grabbed a few keywords out of the jumbled mess that is my brain because the site or service insisted I fill in their metadata section. On Pinterest I discovered this succinct explication.

I will go back and redo my metadata now.

http://www.thebookdesigner.com/2014/09/7-tips-for-metadata-magic-for-self-publishers/

Thinking in Pictures

While surfing around Facebook today, reading the American Left bashing the American Right and vice versa, I came across an interesting post.  One person had said something to the effect that language is necessary for thought.  I agreed until I read a response which noted that there are cases of individuals who think in pictures.

This got me to considering my poetry.  My poems are word translations of sensations.  At this very moment I am sitting in my home office on a chair that is ramshackle using a desk that was the cheapest of the cheap in 1992. A breeze and sounds are coming in the window and cooling my back and my mind.

soft sounds floated on breezes cool
caressing his back
a thousand little fingers reached through his shirt
he shivered deliciously at such delight

This little prosy poem is an attempt to translate the sensation into words and share it with others.  But I had no 'thoughts' as I felt this sensation - only the sensation. And only poetry can translate 'thinking in sensations' for others to experience.

The Man who fell from the Sky is a long form translation of sensations using words, photos, colours... whatever I can place in the eBook. This means most of the advice blogs from successful authors on how to write or market or package a book are useless, or nearly so, to me.  I am not a good story teller but I am a good sensation translator. Sigh.  A poet I guess with the impoverished lifestyle that comes with that affliction.