A compulsion indeed. I think (from looking at my life) the only choice is to ignore it and go insane in a destructive way… or heed its call and go creatively insane. But I’m really not sure that’s a choice either.
A compulsion indeed. I think (from looking at my life) the only choice is to ignore it and go insane in a destructive way… or heed its call and go creatively insane. But I’m really not sure that’s a choice either.
At least you’ve made something from the wackiness, channeled it into someplace which is better than containing it, bottling it up. That way lies totally uncontrolled insanity. I think it’s better if it’s a least slightly controlled, don’t you?
I had similar experiences, mine connected to violence which is a kind of self destructive behavior. But no more. I just wrote a poem early this morning about a young waitress setting the tables for the day. Just in little things like that I maintain the wacko.
A compulsion indeed. I think (from looking at my life) the only choice is to ignore it and go insane in a destructive way… or heed its call and go creatively insane. But I’m really not sure that’s a choice either.
At least you’ve made something from the wackiness, channeled it into someplace which is better than containing it, bottling it up. That way lies totally uncontrolled insanity. I think it’s better if it’s a least slightly controlled, don’t you?
Ha! I know it’s better. Uncontrolled for me looked like destroying myself in any way I could
I had similar experiences, mine connected to violence which is a kind of self destructive behavior. But no more. I just wrote a poem early this morning about a young waitress setting the tables for the day. Just in little things like that I maintain the wacko.
Ha! your next poetry book - maintaining the wacko.
That would be a good name...