4 months of work and here it is...

Production, Production....

“Who can know the heart of youth but youth itself?” –Patti Smith

We are all admonished by the hands of Time. They ring their own sharp tune, leaving us to leap at them like silly cats after a closed door. Foolishly we patter off to our food, or to the warmth of our fireplace, thinking soon enough the door will be opened by Master Time. It’s all a bit of luck, as they say. Now I am young, now strong willed, I haven’t had the door pressing on my nose long, nor the migraine of Time’s pandering hands. I indulge in these silly adventures, and for what? To write something meaningful? To ponder time as if I am a wise old lark? I don’t really have the right... Not yet. I’m not supposed to know anything now, as time tells us. Ignorant youth, we don’t know anything at all.

And even now, I have this middle-aged British voice in my head that isn’t my own. That or some prolific 20^th century poet. A Patti, a Sylvia, an old Brit. It isn’t as if I haven’t a voice, but its swimming in this unfathomable lagoon of literary thought. Mucky as my brain tissue itself. Philosophies have all been worn out, so where does that leave us? The talented youth of the new millennium.

But still I sit here and try to write my poetry, my philosophy, my “non-fiction,” my inspiration. Because in the end it’s all I have ever wanted. I have to wonder, is it too late? Can the world change any more than it already has because of me? Such a complicated mind in a simple life, I like to tell myself, oh wondrous me... But Patti and Robert give me hope, raised in suburbia, changing the course of their future. Still, they faced such hardships straight off the bat and that pushed them, but what do I have to grasp? And are all artists meant to know great pain before they can be called great themselves? What can I relate to the world with my words? Shall I write about food like I always wished, wistfully narrating the sounds and the smells of kitchens around the world? For what? To show what? To share what with this earth?

Anyone can read about morality, about change, about art, about politics, about food and culture and thought and creation. I can’t think of a single thing the world doesn’t have enough of at their literary fingertips. I suppose it must be all about invention. Well I don’t think I’ve thought of anything new before anyone else yet…

Maybe it’s the mundane that’s the key. “Mundane Living, a novel by Rachael Alexandria Meyers.” “Seeking Adventure in a World Pre-Created and Pre-Analyzed by Great Old Literary Geniuses.” Mine is a biography no one yet wants to read. I’ve got to do something great first. I’ve got to make some great statement, some great act, some silly kind of thing that’ll fame me and make people want to read about me. It’s the way these days. Writing can’t make you famous; it’s the fame that makes you a writer worth writing about. Now I’ll abandon this silly thing. Because, as Paul Valéry so wisely put it, “Poets don’t finish poems, they abandon them.”