Spring Training With New, Improved Poets

16 Mar

spring-training-poets

Poets In The Nuthouse

samplex

Date: Sat Mar 16, 1996 7:20:39 AM America/New_York

I like my early mornings. Up at 4-5. Down by seven-thirty to ten. Hopped in front of RadixNET at four this morning. Still cranking out personal letters I try to write AT LEAST once a year to distant offline family and friends, and it seems to be becoming a spring event for me. I like that too.

Of course all this great insight is generated on a machine manned by a jobless mess of a mind, neat as an anomaly hepped up on verbs but as cluttered as a Saharan sandstorm when faced with the prospects of doing what I do and making money for it. I would have to specialize. I don't want to specialize. I like doing just what I do, from where I do it and for why. My studio, or my room, is my favorite spot on earth, given the fact my tools mark the spot. Everyplace else comes with strings attached, costs too much for what I want out of the situation, and generally just sandbags my progress here at the Bitterzone Terminal.

Here all things can be co-opted and adopted with grace, and be repackaged less spiked with all the garbage my mindshifts through when identifying my own path through the corridors of everyone else's mindbeckoning turfstride preservations. But I also realize that left to my own devices I would soon be recognized as a hermitage breed of steffenwolf who has already been rejected from the herd, and must make his own way, alone and in strength, and I already am I suppose, for you see, we are generally if not the last ones we are certainly not the first ones to know ourselves for who we truly are, despite the recorder being on board in some kind of airplane black box we call gray matter. Even Jesus depended on feedback to ascertain his own identity.

Emoting from my home of hearts I can emphatically jaw at any detractor who claims I have underachieved, but then I also realize in a fit of royal promise that I have not yet begun to fight, and I do indeed plan on achieving my share of the promised land, and this is I suppose because one should never rest on laurels or quit striving. At all this I concur, so why make oneself miserable with imaginary timelines and outside agitation? There is nothing else to say but practice what you preach Gabriel, practice what you preach.
Although you have not responded to my last two notes, and I just discovered Prodigy's shakeup of our world, you had stated you were a busy bomber these days, and your mail has not bounced back, so I presume your account is still open, and I'll hear from you soon enough. I keep thinking what my highschool physics and chemistry teacher told me when a couple of years after I graduated I revisited her class. I told her I was striving to be a writer. She stared into my eyes with her mean Mama D (Dressler) eye as if I had suggested a rascal life of indolence and sloth, and said as just a matter of fact, "You've got to contribute something to this world. Making a difference. That's what it is all about."

In the beginning I assumed that this some some great profundity I was being cautioned to note. Now I realize that however valid her statement, very few of us do not contribute to the general running grammar of the global regime, and had I decided to become a chicken farmer (which was my sustaining job at the time), or a writer of dirty jokes, or even War and Peace, what am I, and whom do I blame for my failures to bring forth world peace or cease world during class. All told I took four classes under her in my junior & senior FBHS years. I never LOST an argument, but often enough I could admit to a draw. She had a handful of smart kids. Her elder son was an engineer at Cape Canaveral. She brought one of his first hand-held computers to school. He paid the government $950 for a calculator topped out with algebraic functions in 1972 they now sell for ten dollars, or can't give away. Her daughter Julie, two years older than me, was whizzing through MIT. But the fact that I had an active intelligence prompted her and all my teachers to nominate me for scholarship competitions and I made captain of my school's It's Academic team. All this and I never went to college. Something broke down in my system, or else I will yet make something out of my life I can stand back and be proud of. Emoting from my home of hearts I can emphatically jaw at any detractor who claims I have underachieved, but then I also realize in a fit of royal promise that I have not yet begun to fight, and I do indeed plan on achieving my own share of the metaphysical promised land, and this is I suppose a product that one should never rest on laurels real or imagined nor ever quit striving, and the ends justifies the means when the means need no justification except to fools. In all this I concur, so why make oneself miserable with imaginary timelines and outside agitation? There is nothing else to say but practice what you preach Gabriel, practice what you preach.

Sure hope we don't lose E-mail contact. It's time for another headline, Poets Stymie Bombers 2-0, in eleven innings...

GT

© 1996 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


Top

Login