To Censor, or not to Censor, that is the Question:

I sat down to write a very significant and insightful (read in my big girl serious voice) blog entry about how our inner critic, endless mind chatter, creative Censor (courtesy of "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron) if you will is killing us. Controlling us. Keeping us in fear. Somehow this poured out and I couldn't seem to stop. To stop would let the Censor win. And though the Censor wins a lot. Not today....

           As the sun blinds me through the blinds on this glorious Sunday, I actually hear birds chirping as the smoky dust from the barbecue pierces my nostrils as I sit in this warm bright room. As I adjust the blinds so I can see I’m temporarily poked by the suns rays through its splits. One orchid hangs limply as one is bright and perked outdoing the other. If only they knew it wasn't a competition. Many tongues are spoken on the air outside as I try to make out the meaning to one conversation only to realize it doesn't matter. Words are being spoken and shared among friends and families as dogs bark and engines rev on this busy street in Los Angeles.

Why does this orchid hang so low? Perk up little orchid. Don’t you know we are waiting for your greatness to bloom? Everyone can see it but you. Laughter. A baby crying. What for? I might never know. A wall with many windows crammed onto one building. Drying clothes, potted plants and filth decorate the little glimpses into the neighbor’s worlds.

 Where is this coming from? These words? This flow? This fear that if I stop typing my muse with get mad and never grace me with her presence again. This rabbit foot of luck. Me wanting to force this essay into a preachy sermon-blog entry-poem? What if it can’t be forced into nothing but this flow? Flow on.

The mustache beneath the potted plant smiles up at me as if he knows a secret. Let me in on it Mr. Mustache. Please. Pretty please. Isn't it beautiful that art doesn't have to be beautiful? Or make any sense? It can be pure play. Pure poetry of abstract nothingness. Why are things that mean nothing so hard for us to swallow? We feel hallow. When really it’s just like when we were in kindergarten and our drawings and our games didn't need to make sense or have a reason they just were. They existed. And it was glorious and that was enough for us. When did we start taking ourselves so seriously? When did life stop being so fun and become so “adult?”

“I’ll never grow up!”, my inner child shouts and stomps. But have I? Every worry or conviction that comes to my head drives me crazy but when I really stop to take a look at the absurdity of it all I can’t control my laughter. Quirky smiles of “Oh you!” as I shake my finger at my logical mind. “When are you gonna learn to let go and play like you used to?” Good question. When are you?

The Power Of Poetry

I truly believe in the the Power Of Poetry!

I remember reading and hearing poetry as a child and being transformed. I remember the first time I saw spoken word poetry performed in person at my high school. And I remember the first time I watched Russel Simmons on the HBO series Def Poetry Jam and being lit up by the power of words, of poetry spoken with conviction and passion. A beautiful mixture of performance and writing. Two of my biggest passions.

There were so many amazing poets (too many to even acknowledge and mention them all) that inspired and helped shape me as I grew into the writer that I am today. Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss were poets that awakened my imagination and inspired me to dream as a child. And as I grew into a young woman, poets such as Maya Angelou and Alice Walker reminded me what it meant and that I was allowed to be a strong, confident woman. They provided me with such faith and courage even when it seemed that all hope was lost.

Even though I still struggle. And have days where I feel defeated. I know that a....

‘Loss of vitality
Signals emptiness
But let
Me tell you:
Depletion can be
Just the thing.
You are using
Have used up
The old life
The old way.

Now will rush in
The engectic,
The flexible
The unmistakable
Knowing
That life is life
Not mood’

And because...

‘It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet’

I know that I will travel far. Perhaps...

‘...leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.’

All I can do is keep on going. Keep taking the next step. And hope that I won’t get lost and wind up in...

‘The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or the waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for the wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That's not for you!

Somehow you'll escape
all that waiting and staying
You'll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.’

Life changing lessons and anecdotes. Beautiful words, melodies and rhythms shared through poetry that helped to guide my life. I hope that my words, my poetry is powerful enough to one day to have that affect on someone else.

Rummaging through all of my saved old writing I came across TONS of poetry I had written when I was younger. In elementary school, middle school, junior high and a lot in high school. It was one my favorite genres of writing growing up and still is. But somewhere between the end of high school until now I completely lost touch. I had poetry within me but I would stifle ideas. Maybe scribble a word or two down on a stray piece of paper, in my quote or idea book but then close it and never finish. Leaving that poem to never breath in the light of day or grace the ears of another soul.

Reading “The Artist’s Way” has helped me get back in touch with my poetry and a buried dream of mine to perform my poetry publicly at a spoken word or poetry lounge.

Well that buried dream is surfacing TONIGHT!

Tonight I will be performing one piece of my reborn spoken word poetry.

If you aren’t busy this evening please join me at Da Poetry Lounge, 544 N. Fairfax, LA, CA, 90036. The first show starts at 9PM and the line starts forming at 8PM. There’s $5 cover. Get there early!

To all of the poets who have written poems that were never published, never heard or appreciated - this is for you.

As they reminded us in The Dead Poet’s Society, Carpe Diem!

Let’s go seize it then!