La di da

Where to begin? I find myself in this perennial state of existence when it comes to craft. I set out to write poetry and find myself thinking in prose. Often, my poetry begins in prose. Maybe I dilly-dally because beginning means getting to work, and work is stiff and painful. Especially in poetry or, generally, art, where you have to feel icky things, get to the meat of it. I’m new to Vocal. Obviously, this is my first post. I spent a good amount of time wondering what the difference was between a new post and a note. Again, avoiding the beginning. How many of these maiden posts have I written? Many. Well, la di da.

What am I trying to do? What is any artist trying to do? Fucking get by, I guess? There is never an option to just stop. So, I suppose, to as many maiden voyages as it takes, then.

I think that I want to harness the train wreck that was the writing of the adolescent MySpace days to my adult experiences. I’m not vain enough to think anyone I know might end up reading any of this. I mean, I know Jen will be reading this because she told me. Number 1 fan, that one. I’m very blessed. And, everyone, go check out her art here because she’s fucking amazing. But she can tell you that I’ve always been very honest in my work. And, fuck, it’s only gotten better. I’ve gotten older and quieter and just more and more convinced that the truth is gonna set us all free.

There's going to be poetry here. There will also be glimpses into my first foray into fiction writing because I am a squirrel and easily distracted. I must always try new things! I've been writing poetry for almost two and a half decades. Fiction is a wholly new and terrifying endeavor. But in many ways, it has also been immensely liberating. And fun!

My fiction actually doesn't stray very far from my poetry's obsessions. My poetics has always revolved around the complexities, transience, and magical qualities of memory. How we often construct our identities with fictions. Literally making shit up as we go along. In my fantasy world, magic consumes memory. The more you burn, the greater the risk of erasing yourself.

It has been a great adventure exploring how that informs class, economics, technology, relationships, identity, and even nature. But more on that in a later article.

Along the way, I'll post excerpts, introduce some characters, and even some monsters! I had this crazy idea that I might actually publish the book as a serial on this platform. A little rebellion against traditional publishing. But that might've been just a lark of a thought. If my other publications gain traction here, that lark may come to roost.

But if I know you and you are reading this. Don’t worry. When it comes to poetry, I mostly tell my secrets. And if it’s a secret that involves you, I’ll get your consent. Usually, it’s probably been out in the wild for many years (published) or hashed out in therapy between us, or you got mad at me already for not getting your consent (sorry Mom, it was a long ass time ago, I was literally a child). All this to say, no dirty laundry will be aired unless it’s been cleared between all involved parties. Oh, unless it’s like an ex and we no longer speak and you deserve it and fuck you anyway. Sorry, not sorry. But also, I change up names and stuff. I’m not a monster.