i'm now and then on the edge of having something removed from this site; now and then i actually have something removed. and then there are those times when i'm nearly prepared to have eric (creator of the site) tear this whole fucking thing down but for a poem or two. thinking the rest is either too autobiographical, too fictional, too sappy, too cold. too lost, removed. outside of myself all the way; maybe an accomplishment maybe another mark of shame. ultimately, it's up to me what the pieces mean to me -- no matter what if any outside reactions come into my view, and so i seem to think it's a shameful, yet noteworthy accomplishment, having written these things and gotten fucked up enough to actually send them to eric, who has no time anymore to argue his point that i should never throw a single piece out. saying they're all part of me. my growth or what-have-you -- something like this. i can't recall what the particulars are in his reasoning -- i'm sure it's in many ways sound and logical -- as i say it's been a while since those conversations, and it'd make you tired to read a single one of them, so anyway, he takes down what i ask. i would like to take down quite a bit of my writing at the moment, but it really doesn't matter. i will hold a different opinion when i'm feeling manic again.
i'd like to guess why i want to take stuff down -- i feel an intense desire to back-peddle with regard to the autobiographical elements of certain pieces in particular; but i get especially tired now when i feel myself back-peddling for the sake of vanity. a strange kind of vanity where it's quite important that everyone understand that just because at one time i was seething, bitter, etc, that didn't necessarily or very likely imply that i continue to seethe, and pour salt in my eyes for giggles. autobiography is a kind of fiction anyway -- stream of consciousness is an elusive sort of confessional.
i'm tired of confessing as well.
so i present to you, with a cheerful disregard for the styles and esthetics of my time period, a self-induced lack of culture. an insult to pride. an unholy symphony of fears and misguided needs; a waking nightmare i continue to fall into and shake myself out of.
and i still say it's worth it -- i'm in fact proud of my work.