raving : not writing

it occurred to me today that i can’t write. ever since hospitalization i have been trying and it’s all been false starts, really terrible stuff loaded down with clichés. i’ve been reading a lot and nothing has really been pulse shaking for me either. i’ve enjoyed some novels, poetry, memoirs, but i want something more. not sure what.

i know i don’t want to write autobiographical poetry or fiction. every time i stick autobiograhical bits in my poetry these days it’s really crappy. i’m impressed with those who succeed with that.

a few years ago i stopped writing erotic fiction because i wanted to concentrate more on writing poetry. the writing of poetry for me can be enthralling and intense, but not lately… i want to be better and normally reading makes me so. walking also usually helps as does going to the National Gallery and spending a bit of time with Rothko. good conversations with friends.

but right now i am not capable of penning a good word, let alone a line or stanza. it’s all dreck and drab. it’s like my writing is back to the sentimental stuff i wrote in the early aughts before i read much contemporary stuff, still high on dead guys like Baudelaire and Rimbaud.

it’s like i have to start all over again. how do i do that? should i even bother? what is there to say and why say it? (i know, i’m writing here…the irony isn’t lost on me, but it’s not writing, it’s just blogging. blogging and journaling…not the same, if you understand me in my ravings…)