I’ve been revisiting past writings. Poems, journal entries, bits of words strung together and scribbled on envelopes scrunched into my desk drawer, an entire two college years of poems vandalized by the ball point pens of my poetry workshop classmates stacked into a transparent pink expandable folder. There are times as artists, humans (really), when different mediums and forms of creative expression resonate more with us in our current season. In addition to alternative processes and polaroids, this is currently mine.
It’s enlightening to see past versions of myself. To remember my state of being at the time these were written. To see if I’ve moved past or deeper into the issues at hand. Most are raw and unedited. Just beginnings or emotional rants. Some will be drafted again into something more legitimate, something printable even. For now they are here. Intermittently. Holding my hand at a time when I’m desperate for the company.
I beg you to read these out loud.
This was written in my journal in November 2017. I was on another of my (what I now call) internal crisis trips where I went somewhere out in nature, hiked for days, didn’t eat, slept in my car, bawled my eyes out and screamed a lot at noone and nowhere in particular, met myself in ways I didn’t know existed.
This trip had gone awry due to three days of drenching rain and I remember writing this, half drunk on cheap whiskey in the back of my car with the hatch opened and the rain waterfalling off the back end into a muddy trench.