one of my dearest dear people recently resurfaced and it's as though suddenly the wattage in the room went up.
and in the end, it all comes back to my silly words.
sophomore year of college was very strange. and that strangeness coincided with a creative writing class in which a pseudo-renowned author, who wore silk shirts and an inadequate antiperspirant, believed i had a True Gift for poetry. he made a big enough to-do that, unfortunately, for a brief glimmer of a moment, i exercised my "Gift." it was my plath year. speaking of events from that time, friends invariably harken to the era with the line: "remember that? back when you had your poems."
in this angsty madness, i was prolifically scribbling poetry, much of it somewhat based upon an emotional kaboom surrounding one of my dearest dear people. and because writers like to share, i lovingly assembled my sadistic valentine and sent all hundreds of pages of it to one of my dearest dear people. quite possibly the single bitchiest thing i've ever done.
here we are. giggling over the phone, laughing at my shitty poems, which he has hauled around for the past six years of our mutual silence- inexplicably incapable of parting with them. inexplicably incapable of getting them out of our lives. but their time has come. the shitty poems must die.
a bonfire's in the offing.