My Reckoning of Recognition and Praise. Me, Madness, Fire and Bukowski.

I have been in this whirlwind of praise, and progress, and fighting my inner-dialogue that is often focusing on those cast stones. I could get lost playing out the cringes, laughs and feigned gag gestures. Instead, I'm going to get lost in the absolute wonder of the unexpected. I knew I'd survive. I knew I'd put those I love first, and that my children would be informed, respected and showered with support love and presence in this transition. 

At best, I thought I’d get back on my feet. I'll make some new friends and put one foot in front of the other. It's what I do. What I was never ready for, and still can't quite comprehend, let alone process....is that anyone, even one person (Not a friend trying to encourage me!) would be touched or inspired. If I were contrived, or creating pretty words, and stories I can deal with that. I can accept the praise for that and feel secure in knowing I made something by creating it. 

This is entirely different. To soul-bare, to throw all of it at the screen or paper or ether because I'm fearless now is an act of self-sustaining. It's almost a rebellion against all notions of "what should be" vs "what I am." To have that, this, my true feelings resonate and compel people to send beautiful letters, and stories and love, that I am, and maybe I never will be, ready for. I didn't make this. I just am. 

I didn't act in bravery. In fact, I was selfish,lost, bargaining with grief, self-esteem and loss, but I lied....to myself, to everyone, but then I stopped. I also stood in it, maybe I even took more than I should have, but at this level of effacement, what are degrees of shame or blame? I am. These words, are not my best work, they are not even "work. " They fall out like my hair in such stress. 

They just are. And I am reeling in the beauty and fear of knowing that all criticisms and judgments usually come from the owner and I, the catalyst, brought it out to surface. So to be fair, Shouldn’t this be my belief with praise? I'm more touched to see so many people find permission and acceptance to let their own strength, truth and self-love bubble up. It is not mine that touches them; it is their own souls feeling heard in my story. It's overwhelming, and I am beyond gratitude, I am compelled to find a better more revered word to encapsulate how blessed I feel. 

I'm still nobody to most. I'm not changing the world, I just made a movie  and posted some blogs. Trust me, I know how fleeting all things are, so I pause to push myself to just be in it. It will most likely be gone tomorrow. But today I am inspired. Charles Bukowski was raw, off-putting, lowbrow and in your face. I used to loathe his work. Now, I see his genius is in owning himself. Owning all of it. I hope to stay that honest. To not get beat down by the discomfort of others and to never stop trying. Truth makes me want to be better, kinder, and more flexible. If I never hear another positive word of encouragement, this past week has filled me up. It's pure and it is petrifying, but I'm going to return it's power back out to universe, or die trying. 

Oh, and lastly take this grammar gods. Some times, not often, but sometimes content outshines the rules. 


----------------------

"An Almost Made Up Poem."

by Charles Bukowski

I see you drink­ing at a foun­tain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the foun­tain is in France
where you wrote me that last let­ter and
I an­swered and nev­er heard from you again.
you used to write in­sane po­ems about
AN­GELS AND GOD, all in up­per case, and you
knew fa­mous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, en­ter their lives, I’ not jealous
be­cause we’ nev­er met. we got close once in
New Or­leans, one half block, but nev­er met, nev­er
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the fa­mous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the fa­mous are wor­ried about
their fame –– not the beau­ti­ful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awak­ens
in the morn­ing to write up­per case po­ems about
AN­GELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but lis­ten­ing to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the up­per case. you were one of the
best fe­male po­ets and I told the pub­lish­ers,
ed­i­tors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
mag­ic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a wom­an he nev­er touch­es, on­lywrites to, keeps lit­tle pho­to­graphs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cig­a­rette and lis­tened to you piss in the bath­room,
but that didn’ hap­pen. your let­ters got sad­der.
your lovers be­trayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers be­tray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a cry­ing bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a riv­er and you sat on the cry­ing
bench ev­ery night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and for­got­ten you. I wrote back but nev­er
heard again. a friend wrote me of your sui­cide
3 or 4 months af­ter it hap­pened. if I had met you
I would prob­a­bly have been un­fair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.


~~~~~~~~~

"Shimmer with a smile. Life is hard, bloom anyway."

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