Posted by Atticus on July 25, 2004, at 21:03:47
In reply to Re: My visit to New Orleans was so differient....., posted by Jai Narayan on July 25, 2004, at 19:03:52
My approach varies from poem to poem. The first draft of "Brittle" came out in one fell swoop. I went back later to tighten up the language and rhythm a little, but it changed very little from the first draft. The same is true of "Crocs, 1987" and "Twilight of the Singer." I think that when more time for reflection has passed since an event occurred, the writing is easier, and the three events described in these pieces took place in 1998, 1987, and 1988, respectively. Each of these pieces essentially only includes one scene, one "pearl," so to speak, so there wasn't such a high degree of organization required. But "Cafe du Monde, April 9, 1994" necessitated a lot of organization, which, despite the gains I've made with my meds and illness, is still pretty challenging for me. I had decided to write something for you, but I wasn't sure what. I'd been listening to old-skool '70s punk all day, and the first thing that came to me was the initial line of the first verse ("Brain full of napalm..."), which sounds, when you think about it, a lot like a lyric in a punk song. The rest of the verse quickly followed. I still wasn't sure where the thing was going, but the aggressive tone had definitely set up a sense of mood that I wanted to sustain. Later, unbidden (I guess my subconscious had kept right on composing; this happens a lot), various images from a road trip I'd taken with my wife (now ex) and two friends to New Orleans began to flood my head. I couldn't scribble them down fast enough. They were like pieces of raw film footage; visual memories in no particular order, but which I had a sense added up to something I couldn't quite see the shape of yet. Then I remembered how badly I'd reacted to the news of Cobain's suicide while on that trip, and realized that my full-blown depression had slammed me about two years later, in 1996. I suddenly had the insight that escaped me at the time (and escapes me in the poem): Cobain's death brought the thoughts of suicidal ideation I'd had since age 13 to the fore, and I realized that I probably was at least partially drawn to Nirvana's music because I identified so strongly with its dark and morose tone, and the almost relentless despair evident in Cobain's singing. At this point I had the pivotal scene, and a whole lot of atmospheric visuals as well. The rapid-fire, punk-paced first verse really shaped the rhythm of the descriptions of Bourbon Street that followed. If a remembered image could be matched with that kind of writing, I kept it; if it couldn't, out it went. I had far too many pearls to use, and although the poem could probably have been trimmed, I was enjoying recalling the kaleidoscopic nature of the night before I picked up that newspaper too much to trim it. A good example of an image that I just found a place to tuck in was the description of the baby alligator heads. I wrote that verse separately, and just waited for an opening where I could include it without disrupting the flow. "Spots," though, was a whole different animal from the rest. That suicide attempt took place only about two months ago; I wiped the spot of blood off the front of the fridge only about half an hour before I sat down to compose it. I bashed out the initial version as quickly as I could, because it was taking me to an incredibly painful place. When I sat down to look at it again later that day, I pretty much completely rewrote it. And I continued to revise it even as I posted it. I finally reached a point where I just wanted it to be done, over with. I couldn't handle it anymore. I've never written anything that has taken so much out me; I was deeply depressed, a real mess, for about two days after it went up on the site. I'm glad some people could relate to it, but still ... I'd think twice before I dove into something that intense again. But I did feel a need to get the event, and my feelings about it, into words as soon as possible. It'll be interesting to look at it in a year and see how I was feeling about the suicide attempt now. I kind of kept the number of images to a minimum: cleaning up the blood spatter, the trail on the carpet, and the frantic race to get help. Because of the blackouts, mercifully, there are huge holes in my memory of a lot of that day. The last thing I recall with any certainty is seeing those shoes from where I was slumped on the apartment floor, and realizing they belonged to a cop. There are some other images in my head, but honestly, I'm not sure if they are real or imagined, so I left them out. Whew! I didn't mean to write a treatise here. Sorry about that. But I hope this answers some of your questions. Take care. Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:370015
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040320/msgs/370504.html