Guinness on Me

This is my third blog for the week for class - it's been a free week, write whatever we want to write. I must say that anybody who attempts to not be self-indulgent on these blogs is kidding themselves. C'mon man, this is a fucking diary, you know what I'm saying? And honestly, if I went to a blog of an author who I was digging, it would be to hear him or her talk about THEMSELF. I wouldn't be searching for benevolence - although I always LOVE to hear about their influences - I'm looking for insight into THEM. They're the person who's, so magically, making me feel less alone. Like last semester when I took a class by Marion Winik, my favorite parts which were priceless were when she rambled on, graciously, about the craziness and/or beauty of her own life.

That being said, I read my first fiction piece aloud ever in my life tonight. It was a lot of fucking words - for Steve's workshop I'm taking this semester. It felt pretty damn good, though, too. The title of this blog came from the piece, called, Rusty Gold - and it's such a beautiful thing when you read it, you know, 'cause then you come home and it's not yours anymore. You've given it away - and so I read it again when I got home and it was kind of like (a little) I was reading someone else's work, you know? I had an objectivity that was a relief. I was happy not to own this thing anymore. Other ears had heard it so I couldn't just look on it as my own supple creation anymore; it was now prone to the rigid fibrillations of the earth. I couldn't guard it like that anymore. As has been the case when I've read other poems and pieces, it's like part of my body is now reconciled to be free again. I'm open.

Cheers!