Momentary Stay Against Confusion

My boss recently mentioned that I have nothing to write about because I have nothing to complain about, then went on to correct my use of who/whom, like a fucking English teacher, which he is… was. He is quite possibly the best boss I could be stuck with, day in and day out, because of his knowledge and history with most of the subject matter I focus on, especially with a job like this, where I’m sure it is difficult to carry on a conversation with superiors and not have something about beer come up. He does a pretty good job of not critiquing my work, though I obviously need it. There are still very basic “English” technicalities that I was never forced to wrap my head around, with my fancy private school education (I know fucking plenty about the fucking biblé [sic erat scriptum{used incorrectly for humor}], that’s for damn sure). I am not really a great writer, id est: a great writer has degrees in English or literature; great story-tellers have great editors.

The only real note he’s ever given me was about the mood of my writing voice, which was a hard pill to swallow (because he focused on that), and inspired me to write less, as if the required attention of a partner and kids didn’t do that enough. Though I do get a lot accomplished creatively, I still feel as though my creative life is something I had to give up to have a family. This is absurd, obviously; my creative life is still there, it has simply evolved into including a family, which I am clearly still working on truly defining… because I’m an idiot.

I am an idiot who (?), not only has no degrees in anything, but avoided classes like English, creative writing, or literature, because they required writing shit I had zero interest in writing, or reading shit that I didn’t want to read (at the time)…on a deadline…for a grade…*middle fingers*. I always demanded to do things on my terms, which is ironically why I can’t ever be a professional anything; I see the same attitude in my daughter and it’s fucking depressing. I don’t even consider myself literate, not literally, as in well-read, because my sizable collection of creative fuel is severely limited to a number of factors, especially with the ancients: reduced not only to the selections in a specific, pre-arranged library (which Sally Mann's husband read as a child, a la Hold Still), but also to a 1952 translation, which I never really understood the significance of until I got to Aeschylus, and it suddenly struck me how many lines rhymed… like….. what are the chances that the original Greek/Latin mutation (“Ancient Greek”) writing happens to rhyme in English, and what’s getting lost in the translation… because they shouldn’t?

This limited selection of creative and intellectual expansion, so very late in life, is why I never really read Whitman…well, that and I have an irrational hatred for poetry. I didn’t even really understand his timeline; I thought he was 1900s. The only complete poem I had ever read of his was Songs of the Open Road (only because my wife had a poorly typed copy of it framed in her house when I met her), which reads like an anthem for the 60s and 70s counter-culture attitude. Lo and behold, he was 8 when Beethoven died, and the mood of his work was forever altered by the Civil War. In my defense, please refer to my work ethic (avoidance) in school.

 Wait… we need to go back…”nothing to complain about?” There is clearly a poke here, and joke, but we both have a tendency to point out the obvious, often referred to as complaining by those incapable of seeing the obvious or glazed-over enough to not be affected by it, so I didn’t really see that one coming, in the wee hours of the morning before a double brew day.

Au contraire... I am tired, and I am especially tired of pointing out the obvious to deaf ears (because ears are required for reading?), while trying to distance myself from the “mood” of my voice, which, at this point, could very well just be my personality, which has existed since I have, seemingly outside of any control or choice of mine (my personality and existing). I am fully aware of my short-comings, and have done a pretty good job of keeping my mouth shut, just in general, aside from the recent embarrassment of my frustration and misunderstood sense of humor. I’m tired. My brain hurts.  Children, I believe, have something to do with it. I love my kids, but my days off used to be a bit less stressful because they follow mom around, which sucks for her, but…”mom”…honestly; I’m just dad.

I’m just dad dealing with the “ego” of not being able to support my family comfortably, and she’s Mom…dealing with the “ego” of wanting to contribute, so she now works on the days we would normally have off together, which means these beautiful little souls are now following me around needing me to entertain them (which I am sure entertains her). I am so very grateful to have another chance to have a family, but I am yet to cultivate the emotional capacity to perpetually mediate the bickering of siblings, or…children in general. We go on, staring blankly at the wall.

 The title of this post is a Frost reference from the Whitman intro, which I find to be incredibly ironic, because, let’s face it, most poetry is absolute confusion of metaphor and allegory and symbol and meaning and blah. 

TEACHER

What does the poem mean?

ME

I DON'T CARE.

Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man? 
Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion? 

lAvaNyamaya - consisting entirely of beauty... or the illusion of beauty?

Existence is relationship.

John Greenleaf Whittier (namesake of the city from whence I grew), upon receiving Whitman's Leaves of Grass, sent by Whitman himself in an attempt to self promote, promptly tossed it into the fire.

Why is “ignorant” the only antonym for “well read” on the google? I have met an embarrassing (for humanity) number of people who were very well read and also the very definition of ignorant.