Posts Tagged ‘pointless fighting’

Getting Unstuck….

March 31, 2010

I might have used that title before, so this could be Part II.

I don’t know if it’s the regenerative process of Spring, or it’s a last-legs-stand like my dying Husky, Charlie, but I feel an ‘unsticking’.

I feel a freedom, a thumbing of my nose at a lot of things and people lately.  This might be rude, but I think over all….it’s a good thing.

How do we find the space and time to work unencumbered?  We shed influences  we have been burdened with:  influences we have burdened ourselves.  This could be habits, but it usually is activities or especially people.

A year ago I was embroiled in a fight with a man…not a ghost at the other end of email, because I had actually met him, but embroiled in a knock down, dragged out battle to answer and ‘be right’.  I can laugh at my behavior now because it was time wasting, energy wasting and pointless.  It just was a big pain in the ass and a detour to  what I really wanted to do. Write and write hard.  It took so much out of me that some things dried up, like poetry for about six months.  When you want to be a poet, this is a dangerous position to be in.  It wasn’t until this fall that I became ‘unstuck’ in the category.  The climb back on the poetry wagon was slow and arduous and I never thought I would make it.  I had to turn my thoughts to something that would regenerate me.  Nature does that, but there were other things I suppose.

Recently I have been thinking about some people in my life.  There are people who don’t necessarily ‘like’ what you write, but they are supportive because they understand this compulsion to create.  Then there are people who  could be soft, baked potato behind the eyes because not much registers.  Or perhaps they are so niggardly in their enthusiasm  they think it will impoverish them to give an opinion.   This is rare, but are these the people we want and need around us?  Editors take their pound of flesh but at least there  might be something given back…like a book contract.  Friends are not editors, and even if they think you are going to Hell….well, perhaps their first task is to light the way.

I have come to the conclusion  life is  short. Perhaps because I am growing older and don’t have the patience or time to squander on people who are marginal in my life.  People, and there are only a  few, who give nothing but do take up your time.  Negative people who would drag you down in their sad and meandering lives.  People who can’t make up their fucking minds about their own lives but would sit in the road and  demand you placate them in some  way.  I think they are massively bored with life.

I feel a sense of freedom because I have ‘used my words.’   I have, over the course of a few weeks, worked hard to free myself of guilt and continued concern for lives  outside mine and have few common points of interest except we breath the same air.

This is not to say I am consciously rude.  I just don’t spend time anymore and realize that in doing so…I have much more energy and time for the important things in life:  those I love and want to be around.  Critical influences, to be sure, you can’t get away from  in life, but supportive  positive, critical influences.

My creativity goes up.  My production goes up.  And I can turn my mind to the necessary refinement of that which is necessary.

I am nobodies Guardian Angel.  They are on their own in this life…and besides…it’s their life.  Each of us must make the most of it before they put the coins on our cold eyes.  Some are just coasting to Hell.

Lady Nyo



In passing from room to room,

I close the door

And hear the lock click.

The abandoning of one space-

Hopeful promise of another.

In a middle passage between lovers

Transposing between them,

Haltingly, like a car

With a bad clutch,

I think how much easier it would be

If I could do like the rooms:

Enter, leave, close the door, and step out anew.


But love is messy,

Memories, arguments, tears

Follow under the threshold and through the keyhole,

Become little green snakes that curl around my ankles

Tripping me up,

Tiny sharp fangs make me mindful

Of vague misgivings.


Too, embers of a burnt out lust

Beyond ability to evoke the necessary fires

In body parts once shared with delight.

This pallid thing knows the route to my heart

Still uneasy, done in,

By guilt and remorse.



Raw materials of regret

Unfinished business,

Unspoken words,

A dream of a dance without music,

Fading touch, attention.

Yet still,

With nagging thoughts we were too hasty,

Too caught up in the rigor mortis of righteousness,

Too bound to the self, unbending–

Now makes  me turn back to that door

and fumble the lock.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009

%d bloggers like this: