I had a rather exhaustive breakdown of sorts last week. I cried for about an hour because of my writers block, and fearing that I won't be prolific (or that I won't be read, or that being read or prolific isn't relevant), and comparing myself to other people who are already in grad school (like Columbia) and who are getting published in modest independent publications, and thinking I'm 24.5 years old which is pretty close to my life being over and I'm nobody.
I woke up the next day and didn't feel like I had anything left to get out. So I had a lovely 4 day weekend complete with 2 fires, some family, (no burgers...sad), the city, my best boy, and some kids I don't see nearly enough. Went to Franklin Fountain and got green tea ice cream; it was a lot greener than I remember. I want to go back to try a chocolate/peanut butter combination before I'm off my chocolate/peanut butter kick. A homeless man asked for change, but we kept walking; he then asked me to take his picture, so I stopped. I took two pictures; he thought they were very good. He talked to us for a little, asked our names. He pointed to a man sitting on the sidewalk directly across from him and said, "That's my brother Pat, and I'm Pat." The man across the street waved. I gave him a dollar for letting me take his photo and he appreciated it. He asked where we were from, but we never answered and I don't know why. Later that night I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking how fucked up it was that I didn't stop to give the man change, but I stopped when he said, "take my picture." And how fucked up it is that I ignore homeless people whenever I'm in the city not because I think they're sub-human, but because I'm scared (and I don't know if I'm taught to be afraid of homeless people, or if I'm taught to simply be afraid because I'm a girl). And I felt an overwhelming guilt at not being homeless and subsequently thought that is fucked up, and that no matter what you do to "be a part of the solution" you'll never really solve any problems.
I guess it wouldn't have moved me so much if I didn't kneel down on the ground to take this man's picture at eye-level and see him as a person and not something over-used and discarded. And if it didn't seem like he just wanted us to sit and talk with him all day whether or not we gave him spare change. He asked Plus-Ham if he knew how to play 'Stairway to Heaven' since Plus-Ham had a guitar strapped to his back and 'Stairway to Heaven' was Pat's favorite song. Plus-Ham didn't know it, but I think he should have improvised. He promised Pat he'd learn it and come back to play it for him, and I'd like to see that actually happen.
I started taking my camera with me almost everywhere I go, and I think that's been helping my writers block. I started writing prose-poems last night and continued today. I think I've made my decision about entering the poetry program instead of fiction, and I feel comfortable with it. It's the form I seem to know best. Been off-and-on reading the last issue of Court Green (#5, Dossier: Sylvia Plath). Brainstorming, trying to decide how to string my portfolio together (theme?).
Also, I need to find the balance between studying, reading (which is also studying), and writing. How to juggle.
Feels like it's time to put the summer away.
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