Some days, I simply wish I could wear a cap on my head just to give my brain a hug. Other days, I want to wrap a massive band-aid around my cranium to solve the pounding headaches that take place there. And then there are the days that I wish my brain was equipped with an on and off switch that could be flipped whenever I so please. The scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz says, “If I only had a brain!” I say, “If I only had a brain that I could turn off every now and then.” I do wonder if ignorance is bliss. Those who don’t think are perfectly content with life as it is. Those who think all the time manage to find fault in themselves, in others, and in the world around us until we are all driven mad. Those who take higher level advanced courses always complain, worry, and stress out over their classes while those who take average classes seem pretty content and easy going about things. My brain is on 24/7 and never stops…EVER. It’s bad when you study so much for Spanish class and then as you get out of class and someone holds the door for you, it’s automatic for you to say “gracias” rather than “thank you.” You know that you’re too focused on your education when you skip lunch to get a few more repetitions playing through all of the movements of Telemann’s flute sonata. You know you’re too smart for your own good when corny chemistry jokes are your form of comic relief for the day. You know you’re taking your foreign language class too seriously when you begin dreaming in Spanish. There’s something seriously wrong when that happens. I think too much. It’s a fault of mine, but I wish I could cure it every now and then. People say to me, “Don’t overthink this” but seriously, it’s like telling me “Don’t blink.” I do wonder if ignorance is bliss. Is intelligence worth it all? All nights you spent studying while your friends partied. All those hours of sleep you lost because you came up with a novel idea that you had to write down immediately. All those occasions you chose the intellectual action over the frivolous action. Why are appearances so important when it comes to finding love? Why don’t guys think “Wow, she has a beautiful brain”? If the mind is a beautiful thing, why doesn’t everyone notice its beauty? I do wonder if ignorance is bliss. I wonder, I think, I overanalyze, I criticize, I dream, I imagine—I quite frankly use my brain toooften. Maybe it’s a good thing, but on those days you want to flip the switch to your brain, try this: Go to sleep, crazy.
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A poet’s mind is like a New York City subway station—crowded, cluttered, chaotic, and yet strangely entertaining at times. Ideas come and go and sometimes, they board a train out when we wish they’d hang around a little longer. Some downright awful ones meander in and loiter in its far dark corners long past their welcome. It’s a frightening and foreign place to those who know it not, but to those who understand its complexities and daily routine, it’s a familiar home. Derek Berry, a fellow writing friend of mine, recently wrote a post on his own personal blog site on “the poetic life.” If you're interested in his week-long contemplation on the poetic life, check out his blog at http://derekberry.wordpress.com/2012/10/17/the-poetic-life-an-introduction/. Derek describes a poetic life as the kind of life where everything can seem sentimental, and anything can serve as inspiration to our creative brain juices. Yesterday, I read his post and took some personal time to ponder my own poetic life that has been fraught with writer’s block, overthinking, and overwhelming bouts of nostalgia and sentimental sap. Just recently, I returned to my poetic life after taking what seems to have terribly long sabbatical. Last week, I picked up an old poem idea that I had been tossing around for about a month or so and finally got around to writing it out. You can read my poem titled “What I’m Trying to Say” in the previous blog post of mine I posted earlier today. The writing process: inspiration, reflection, pen-to-paper time, and then finished product. It’s an exhiliarating thrill you get when you’re crafting a work of art from nothing but a blank sheet of college ruled paper and a dull-pointed #2 pencil—but somehow, you make something hopefully worth reading. You write and you write and you write until your finished product is all out there plain to see. But what is it like to get inside the brain of a poet? Does it mean that we’re all masters of philosophy—that we’re all magical gurus who secretly know the meaning of life? Do we brush our teeth while brainstorming a new haiku for each and every incisor rooted in our face? Are we sentimental sighing lads and lasses who sit under willow trees sipping an afternoon’s tea with one hand and scribble out wisdom with the other? The interesting and humorous misconception is that poets sit around all day musing and pondering over the mundane and manage to skew to make it seem sentimental and enlightening. The truth is that we’re ordinary people who are trying to make sense of the world around us. We express it through words. Words, words, words. We construct phrases that seemingly run on forever and make both and the reader and the writer incredibly winded to try and read the lines aloud so that the pacing gets faster and faster and faster like a human being accelerating toward the earth without parachute, a miracle, or hope. Poets are masters at saying what needs to be said. It can be pointed and concise but equally dense. It can hit you like a brick when I say that poetry can’t save the life of a six year old girl diagnosed with terminal cancer. Sometimes, a writer's poetic thoughts can be a taxing and fatiguing package that seems to have been dumped on our front porch. Overthinking is one of my greatest faults. Dreaming and imagining the infinite possibilities. Dwelling on my own actions and the “what if” principle. Rationalizing the actions of others and making sense of the illogical. My mind can be a terrifying place at times that is constantly in danger of exploding and spewing poetic brain goo from one end of the room to the other. A poet’s mind can be a messy and confusing place at times, but somehow, truth manages to gleam through. What I mean is that we poets bring a new perspective to the table analyzing, exaggerating, and rephrasing different chapters and footnotes of life. We write to express. We write to escape. We write because our words are what our society so desperately needs. Ramble, rant, complain, vilify, praise, defend, narrate. It’s all perspective. Maybe we should all try and see life through different colored lenses, upside down and backwards. Perspective is what the world needs and what a poetic mind can provide. Just last week, I returned to my poetic life and wrote this poem titled "What I'm Trying to Say." This poem gives voice to the bizarre and erratic thoughts of a nervous lovestruck teenage who is so desperately trying to ask one single question but is having a horrendous time accomplishing such a simple task. Just a few days ago, I submitted this poem to a literary magazine called "Teen Ink" and the great news is that my poem was awarded Editor's Choice Award! I'm still in the editing process, so feedback is welcome. Here's my poem "What I'm Trying to Say." Enjoy!
What I’m Trying to Say Many people enjoy playing the awkward question game. They want to hear the weird, unsettling, and sometimes humorous answers that come from it. Personally, I’d just like answers to my questions. Serious answers. Be honest and be serious Because I’m being 110 % serious. I’ve always had this question festering on the tip of my tongue. I’ve always wanted to ask you, But I can’t seem to get the right words to come out of my mouth! What’s wrong with me that I can’t ask such an innocent question?! But finally, I think I’ve plucked up enough courage to finally ask the question that has been bugging the snot out of me. I’m going to say it! Maybe… So…my question: If I was hit by a bus on prom night, would you come visit me in the hospital? No—scratch that—that’s not my real question. If I asked you to write me a poem, would you? Wait a second, I’ve already written a poem about that. Let me try changing my question to something better, Perhaps something less childlike and silly. Maybe I should ask you what you’d say at my funeral if I died today. I’d hope you’d say the kindest, sweetest things about me that would make me mad that I wasn’t alive to witness the ceremony. Perhaps that’s too dismal of a subject to bring up now while we’re young and invincible. Let’s say that we lived in the time when chivalry was still alive And let’s also say that some man challenged you to a duel, Would you fight for me? Maybe I’m skirting the real question that’s on my mind… Which is more valuable to you, your violin or our friendship? Argh! You know what? I suck at this whole question-asking business! I mean…well, you know what I mean, right? Have you ever had that feeling when you want to ask that question, but you’re afraid of what that person will assume when you ask that question and if you asked that question you’d ruin everything that you’ve built up with friendship and small talk, and so therefore, you don’t even decide to risk it by asking the question in the first place, so you decide to ask a series of minor unimportant and downright ridiculous questions to see if all the answers sum up to the larger more important one which I’m terribly afraid to ask… ...you know? Why am I so afraid to ask you one simple question??? Am I afraid your wit daggers will pin me down with one swift motion? Am I a coward because I’m afraid of the life or death consequences of one single question? Ok, maybe it’s not life or death, But if only you could answer my question without me having to ask it-- But patience is absolutely nauseating! I’m going to ask it if it kills me! If I was performing a concerto with the symphony orchestra, would you surprise me with flowers? If I tumbled headfirst down a flight of stairs with my violin case, would you check me or the violin for damage? If love existed in the time of cholera, does it still exist in the twenty-first century? Would you touch me with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole if I was miserably sick with the flu? Would you dry my tears if I was crying my eyes out? Would you listen if I said something? You know what? I love you! There, I said it. Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to say all along. Now, my question to you is Do you love me? |
AuthorKendall Driscoll is an accomplished writer/ musician/ artist/ academic scholar. Archives
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