Friday, March 02, 2007

Endlessly Self-Referential

The Rockrose Moon (A Serial Fiction) Part 30

I wonder if Charlie Rose knows how naked his ambition to influence the worlds of diplomacy and the arts appears?

I remember when Harold Pinter gave his Nobel speech a few years ago and used it as a platform to talk about Iraq, that Christian and I talked about how unseemly and over the top, how hyper-dramatic it was.

It doesn’t seem so now.

Not in light of all that is going on, and now Charlie Rose seems lame when he argues back and one wishes Pinter could have been quicker on the uptake when he was confronted with the inevitable World Trade Center argument about why we are there. 9/11 has nothing to do with why we are in Iraq.

Afghanistan; yes, of course. Bad as it was, and it was horrid, it seems like 9/11 is a story we tell ourselves to make us feel better about why we are in Iraq. Sort of like how we tell ourselves there are angels to explain the powerful forces at work in our lives that watch over us.

We could use their help right about now, I fear.

Harold Pinter writes poetry. That is why I brought him up, not to get myself on some endless “watch” list because I expressed and opinion about the war.

He says he has always written poetry and many folks say in referring to him that he is our most poetic, successful contemporary playwright. I’ll buy that.

I need to get some of his poetry from the library and see what I think. He says he writes poems down on a pad he keeps in a pocket sitting in transitional places like a bar.

He is a gifted enough writer that I believe he can do that… unlike the hordes of ambitious half-dead animated by greed want-to-be writers that drag themselves to their day jobs full of toxic resentment that their perfect talent has not been discovered yet… sitting in bars and coffee houses and staring out bus windows as I write this.

All that matters is the work.

Speaking of the library, I ordered Gaining: The Truth about Life After Eating Disorders by Aimee Liu the other day. (She is part Chinese like me.)

I’ve only written one poem about my anorexia, and thee are probably many more in there. Heck, even Christian has written about it on an imaginary footing.

I don’t like writing about myself… I’d rather write about falcons, and watch the birds flow intact out of my hands.

1 Comments:

Blogger chiefbiscuit said...

That last line is pure poetry!

8:11 PM  

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