artist: Maya Elena or Maya Elena Jackson (which one is it? Then again, I run into the same problem. I have two last names and seven middle names and there are all sorts of variations sitting out there that it becomes a thing when filling out various forms, etc.)
tags: cat love (hoo boy, taken in the wrong context this could mean all sorts of things), maya elena jackson, pet poetry, spoken word, love, tucson woman, Tucson
My quickly put together idea just now was to write a whole poem as a review, to ya know well because this is a spoken word poem and I don’t know it sounded fun until I tried to do it.
It wasn’t happening. I did really attempt it but the flow was all messed up and then I had to think about rhyme schemes and that just wasn’t happening either so now we get to have whatever it is that is birthed from my mental orifices. Slippery when wet indeed.
I couldn’t even finish this review. I am ravenous but exhausted. Fantasies of late night/early morning fast food couple with a burning desire to see all creation writhe in agony.
This was just going to be a review of Cocoa, but I felt the urge just moments ago to delve into her other works. I am glad in a way that I did. It inspired words in my mind. I am doubtful they will make it into any form of the written word but the imagery conjured is drearily pleasant. It’s fun to have thought and to be creative. I seem to have forgotten that.
I’ll Forgive You If You Don’t Pick Up starts with an almost strangled and controlled choked up emotion. A forced performance perhaps? Yet it doesn’t seem fake either. Perhaps an act but at the very least the source is pure. Seemingly so anyways.
Perhaps that is just my projection. I think I see the same tints of pain and suffering, and for whatever reason I want to latch on and help if I can. But then it’s more me than they and then it all has a great fall and before you know it it’s a return of the severance of connection yet again. My fault really. A lot to feel, not many if any, to share it with. I just get weak some times.
But the words makes me think of other things. Such as just the other night, I had a slight panic attack. I was wrestling with the thought of not existing for the rest of time. A very disconcerting notion for a lifeworm (I truly meant to type lifeform but the connotations of lifeworm are delicious), but a notion nonetheless. At least there would be no sensory input. No actual knowledge, and should you exist again, it’d be within the blink of an eye, a distorted perception that time has indeed passed. Unless of course, you don’t remember. Take the alternative though, and be welcomed into another plane of existence after the one runs out. When does it end? Does it ever end? Can I get off that ride please? So, whilst tumbling about with eternities on all sides, my heart rate shot up, and my breath became short. Until I decided to say fuck it and not care.
Just now pacing between my room and the bathroom, I was thinking how what I consider good writers sort of…gently persuade the reader into a certain direction. A general image with some suggestions and the imagination takes the rest. Too specific an image and the reader is sure to be lost. Too ambiguous and really it’s a hope that the reader puts their heart and their mind into your work and come out praising you as clever and talented, etc. Well, that’s just my assessment really.
Oh my. Some of these poems get into some dark territory. That being said, it is an unfortunate reality. But then, where is the defining line between things that are real and things that are well, not? Very personal things to know about someone, depending on their level of comfort. Plus, well I don’t know, I suppose my statement there is that well I am sorry if the author/narrator experienced some of these tragedies. I get curious about the emotions of others. I want to see what they see. I want to feel what they feel. And I want to see how I react to it. Stranger notion I suppose. I just want to understand in the end.
A theme that I sort of barely gleaned out of some of the later poems is about people deserving love. Many people do feel that way. I just get curious though, does that mean one is meant to be loved? It’s a nice thought, just some times, when the loneliness creeps in, and the remorse for foolish and malevolent acts seeps into the folds of my brain, I can’t help but wonder that I don’t deserve it, that plenty don’t deserve it, and even if those that do deserve it, doesn’t mean they’ll ever find it. It would be great if they did, however…
Just to be clear I am not questioning the validity of the intent, experiences, and/or emotions or anything else expressed within the poetry by the author, etc. That was not my intent. Merely, a wondering about ideas, and perhaps a less happy side of things. I just question things so I can try to find out how they tick. Sometimes, you have to be told how, lest you’ll never know. Suppose that means there will be a lot of not knowing.
So out of the deeds fueled by devilish desires and the fancies of fiends. Into Olivia we go.
Typically speaking, I feel poetry usually forces itself in a rut of a certain flow when spoken aloud. I guess it is just the way of things. Writing can be the same. Most creative things can be the same. Again, just the way of things. Everything is a pattern. Just depends on the pattern you adhere to.
Slowly but surely the comprehension leaves and the words just flow and it’s more about the mood and the feel than the message portrayed. Probably the victim of a poor attention span. Or a selfish one. More focused on the main perception expression than the one being expressed. Or perhaps just tired. A lack of desire to trying to figure out what it’s all about and just a matter of handling it all when it comes down to it.
So, for a lack of care for the siren song lulling one into dreams of sweet oblivion we move onto the original course. To Cocoa.
Strange that a small creature could bring such joy. It happens. My cat, which stays with my parents, still recognizes me. No matter how long I haven’t been down. No matter how late I show up. He just comes up gives me a look of “Hey.” and then proceeds to snuggle. Such a simple thing, really, but welcome. Something that enjoys your presence. Something that just says “I like you.” Sure, there is some form of ethical debate of forced dependence but still, it feels genuine. Unconditional. My current pet of choice is spiders. A most different kind of feel there. I feel privileged to keep such beautiful and wondrous creatures, despite lack of emotional connection. Still, they bring me such joy and some sense of purpose. A good thing, really.
Below, is the link to the main poem but be sure to check out the other collections. I trust that if you were able to click the link, that navigation will not be too difficult for you.