Hello Fellow Travelers! It's been awhile since my last post... miss my prosaic ramblings? I'll fill you in... Cory and I moved in together at the beginning of June, so it's been a little crazy, but were settling in just fine, thank you very much! I felt compelled to write tonight as I had another one of those epiphianc moments on my way home from seeing my folks...
Our place is small, 540 sq feet small. But it's in the South End, in a great location, and aside from the usual hunt for parking- things have gone better than I could have hoped for on all fronts. The size of our apartment has resulted in the necessary purging of a great many items, many, beloved by one or both of us. So as part of this ritual, I brought a box of old paperwork/memento's from my former life as a Social Worker to my parents today when I went to visit. As I was culling through what to save and what to throw out, I happened upon some of my professional notepads, which doubled as 'poetry journals' as serendipity would have it. I read through many of my old poems that I wished to have someday published as a type of "Poetry of the embattled Social Worker" or something to that extent... Reading through these old poems and, um... prosaic ramblings, it dawned on me just how depressed, or at least how restless I was in this profession. Here's an example if you'll indulge me:
The worn and battered doors open
like a tired womb.
A new person crosses the threshold;
a mix of concern, resentment,
and duty on their ageless face.
Why have they come this far?
Are there others to follow?
I don't blame them for not
coming this far...
The foreboding black threshold gives way
to a stained mosaic of a floor-
too many old memories, this floor.
It will never be white again.
Countless years of wax+polish have indelibly sealed in forever;
the secrets, the shame, the humiliation for all to see and despise.
It's kinda funny how sometimes,
no matter how hard you try,
these stains can never be washed away...
~Epilogue~
Why so somber? I have yet to figure out.
But I don't really want to know.
Give me something good- something that
I can really sink my teeth into.
So after reading through 20 or so of these, I realized something- almost all my "poems" end with me questioning myself, my purpose, my sanity... Since I began this amazing, terrifying, exhilarating journey to pursue a passion almost two years ago, I've realized that not only have I stopped writing these whining soliloquies, but I no longer question "WHAT" I'm doing with my life... it's shifted to "HOW"! After 34 years, I'm no longer questioning what I'm "meant" to be doing. In Acting, I don't question, what does it all mean, how am I making a difference, is this what I want to be doing with my life... I KNOW this is what I want to be doing, and the shift from "What" to "How" was so subtle I didn't even realize it until tonight. And it's fucking AMAZING!!!