Back From Winter Hibernation, And A Story About Poetry

I just looked at my blog for the first time in months, and realized I haven't written a damn thing since September. Ridiculous. I could use the excuse of not having Internet for a while, or living in my friend's living room for a few months, or being in the hospital for a bit, or just generally being busy, but these are just excuses. In reality, I was just feeling private. It happens. Sue me. 

I think it's time to get back on the horse. I don't have a topic for this little writing exercise, so if this comes across as disjointed and hackneyed, you know why. Sometimes you just have to release yourself to the forces of the great magnet and let the story flow out of you. Or something. 

Here's a story from the Old Country:
Once upon a time, I fancied myself to be a bit of a poet. This was during the time between high school and being able to legally drink and mingle with the rest of the "adults." Remember those days? When you hung out at coffee shops until 4am talking to your disenfranchised friends about whatever the hot button topic of conversation was at the time? Well, if you don't, kudos. You were probably too busy "going to college" or "making something of yourself." But I digress.

I remember the first time I read something I had written in front of a crowd. It was late, the room was smoky (those were the days), and the audience was 10 kids like me, sweaty palmed and scared shitless of the prospect of not being accepted as the artist we all KNEW we were. Granted, we all acted like we were old hands at this kind of thing. There's something about the insecurity of youth that makes you think vulnerability is a crutch that should never be shown to anyone you're not trying to have sex with, and this vulnerability makes for a tough crowd.

I stood outside smoking cigarettes with reckless abandon while I went over my poem over and over. I don't remember what it was about, and any copies have been subsequently lost to posterity, but I remember thinking at the time that is was a perfect representation of my jaded, tortured soul. I was so proud of myself. I had finally produced something that I had enough confidence in to share with the world. And dammit, tonight was going to be the night (there may have been a girl I was trying to impress, but who remembers these things?).

I waited at the back of the room we had commandeered for our little open mic session for my name to be called. It was the second longest wait of my life (I'll tell you about the longest wait some other time). There is nothing quite like the first time you bare your soul in front of strangers. While part of you is excited to bask in the warmth and adulation of your expected stardom, the bigger part of you is screaming in your ear to just get the fuck out of there before you inevitably make a heroic ass of yourself. It's a hell of a mental state to be in. 

When I was finally called, I almost didn't go up. The fear was palpable. The dark voice of insecurity whispered the most beautiful things to try to save me from what it thought was going to be certain, mortifying embarrassment. But I went up anyway.

I don't remember how the crowd responded to me, or if they liked my work, because the amount of adrenaline flowing through my body gave me horse blinders and a temporary case of tinnitus. All I remember is the sense of accomplishment I had just for getting up there and doing it. And that memory has stuck with me. 

Word.