Afterword

It’s not about quality. It’s when the pieces falling into place are all lateral moves; that’s when I know the end is near. And then when I compare what is there with what was upstairs, despair.

It’s not good enough. Not by a long shot.

The poem is bad, and because it is bad, no one will ever read the important lines that have plagued me since the beginning, the entire purpose of this multi-media exercise.

So the book will have to improve, to pull more weight. But it is bad. And I don’t want to look at it anymore until I’ve forgotten how bad it is and can maybe trick myself into thinking it isn’t. I’m a pretty shit writer.

And since everything is awful and not worth the finish line, you can kiss that non-existent movie even more of a non-existent goodbye than you did when you took the first steps on this project. If no one reads it, no one will make a movie. And no one will read the poem aloud, as those few lines were intended.

Which means an easier life for me.

And I’m disgusted to feel relief at that.

Because if it is bad, then no one will read it. So it doesn’t matter if it’s bad or good. Just that it’s done and maybe this plague can be over. I’ve never felt it this insistently before. It is literally a plague this time. Thinking that the poem won’t be performed gives me paralysis. This one is more important than the others.

I rarely want to unpublish the others that were so personal to me. Only when I think about them.

I’m thankful for all the times I’ve felt this way before, so I know one day soon these emotions will pass and I will actually be proud of what I’ve done, instead of just pretending out loud.

But for now it’s bad, and there’s no use dreaming of the poem being spoken aloud and reaching those important parts with the sung lines and the accompanying music, and the call and response from the non-existent crowd. No need to think over that performance that will now never happen. So much time agonizing over something that will never happen.

And the movie… I will never have to turn in a draft script, something I’ve never done before.

I’ve also never written a poem before, which is why it’s so mediocre.

I’ve never done a lot of things this thing demands of me.

The dream can go to sleep for a while.

Briefly, no longer trapped in a pleasant dream, I can work a little more to make it reality.

Then I read a portion of what I’ve forgotten and realize, oh, this is good, actually? Huh.

Who knew, I can actually write a decent book. Why didn’t it feel like that was the case for a minute there? I’ve been doing it for fifteen years at this point! 

I haven’t ever written a poem for publication, however, that remains true. My career as a poet will begin and end when I hit publish… or if I hit that button.

Stuck between happiness, and sinking, and the ever-present now, now, now. Now before it’s too late. The Paralyzing Now.

Have I finally accepted what it is instead of what it should be? No one else will know what should have been, only me.

Conversations inside a pleasant dream, a future never happening, there are lines and lines to be added, pieces falling, if I can pop out and write them down.

Stories are the weapons in the war of ideas. Write it. Publish it. It’s not up to you to change the world. 

Seems like a bit of a stretch for an entertainer.

It’s the collective story that will do it. One at a time, brick by brick. Not mine. Not yours. All of them. In whatever way we can.

What can I do?

I’ve settled on the sinking understanding that the book and the poem, both separately and when taken together, are above mediocre. And also the best I can do. Which means I will never be in the position to perform them, as I can see so clearly in my mind. This is good. This is good. Because I have a face made for radio, and a voice made for the written word. So I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And thus, 

I can hit, 

publish.