so, i get a journal that i've been published in via snail mail today.
the oohh, and ahh, lasts all of five seconds. even when i see my stuff in print, my name on the (back) cover. i am thoroughly unimpressed.
it's not the publication. it's just some weirdness of my own.
some peculiar bent in me that doesn't really care about publication.
odd that i would be considering attempting to get published in earnest this coming semester at school, that or dance, i may go the way of dance.
but it's still a while yet before i have to commit to the spring semester, so i'll let the whole thing gel a while.
i wish i could generate some buoyancy, some delight, but actually, it just ain't there. i think because the poem to me is bittersweet. the generation of it was such a trial. the whole ordeal of writing poetry for me is not so much about seeing a product, it's about searching a soul. about communion.
i think i'll never be famous, and that is fine with me now.
i think i may never get truly published, in the way so many are.
and i'm cool with that too, because apparently, that's not what i'm doing this for.
i've got some processing of my own to do.
and this is a nice bright spot, but a tiny candle in so much darkness is hardly noteworthy.
i wish i didn't have the capcity to suck joy out of everything.
but that's just how it be.
peace.
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Hey girl. I don't think that the publication sux so much as the loss. The loss sucks. Maybe the publication sux. I don't know. Why you fuss so much? You're awesome. I was listening to a poet tonight and I thought about you. How I would love to be able to actually hear you read. Why you think your work won't be getting out there? How can it not? You are going to rock the world. No flattery there. That's a fact. What did Spencer say?
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