The Admiring Bog
… And then there's that moment when you finally come to terms with the idea that has been nagging you for weeks- muttering in your ear while you type, poking you in the ribs as you sit in your chair at open mike trying to decide what to read:
No one really needs to hear your shit.
Of course you need to write it. Sure you do. It's how you cope. Well, it's one of the more constructive ways you have to deal with things, anyway. You won't stop writing this stuff, because how could you? And really, why should you? Pour your heart out!
But nobody really needs to hear it.
It's not about feeling unwelcome, and it's only partly about feeling unworthy. You just sit there, night after night, listening to other people and that voice keeps saying, What makes you think they need to hear what you have to say?
What's the point of this anyway? Do you think that you have something important to say that hasn't been expressed a thousand times, both worse and better? Will your brilliant word juxtaposition move people? Will your witty observations make some sort of difference? Change anything in any way?
No, of course not. It's just … interesting. Just for fun. Except maybe it's not fun- or interesting- for them. How many people are just sitting there politely while you do your thing because they're waiting for their chance? Not hating you, but not really careing. Waiting you out.
And as soon as I think of that- then it's not fun for me any more, either. And then, what's the point?
What was ever the point? Getting famous or something? No, just getting out, seeing some people, sharing some things. Fine. I remind myself that I can do all that without standing up there shouting "Hey, look at me! Listen to how cool I am!"
Because of course- I"m not cool. I'm ok. Worse than many but better than quite a few; a bit of an odd duck but that's alright. But week after week now, I sit and look at the papers in my hand and think, "What am I doing?" Who am I kidding?
Just because hitting the mike is what the other poets do doesn't mean I need to. I'm never going to publish a chap book or do writing workshops or travel around doing features. I write my stuff for me. So why am I telling them?
Emily Dickenson had it right. What am I doing, croaking my name to the swamp night after night? Swamp don't care. Why should they? They're all busy making their own noise. So say what you need to say- but to yourself.
Some things go in seasons. They matter a lot for a while… and then they don't. For whatever reason. I don't go to church any more, for many reasons, and while I miss many of the people, I just feel that it's a season that has passed for me. And maybe this is one of those things.
I'm just not going to be hitting the open mike soon.
Tracy Meisky is a poet, writer, singer, songwriter and all-around boat rocker from way back. Feel free to look around, but if you break it, you bought it.
I think I grasp the ambivalence you're getting at here, but what I really key in on is your use of "need." I read quite a few women's streams (blogs, Twitter, etc.) because I want to understand their perspectives. Do I need to? No. But I want to. Same goes for gay, African-American, foreign, and so on responses to their lives and situations. I <i> want</i> to understand different human perspectives, because I think it makes me a better, more empathetic and compassionate human being. Do I <i>need</i> to do this? Of course not. I just want to.
The same applies to my missives into the void. My perspective is in no way special, no more or less important than anyone else's. Except that it's mine. Do I <i>need</i> to share it? Maybe I do. Or maybe not. All I can say is that it seems to satisfy an urge, to fill a void… perhaps I don't <i>need</i> to do it, but it makes me feel more full if I do. Even if I get no response, and especially when I do.
Do birds need to sing? Perhaps not, but the world would be a less marvelous, moving and magical place if they didn't.