Halloweiners

Lately I’ve been waking up with poem fragments rattling around in me. It’s funny. An hour before my alarm goes off I’ll open my eyes and think, “When did I grow to fill this bed?/When did I move from side to center?” or “Running my palm down my arm I confirm/ with great relief/ that I am more than flesh and nerves.” Then I fall back to sleep but spend the rest of the day struggling to remember.
Autumn does that to me. It shakes loose my silly lines, my poems and songs, my mix-tape plans, my margin sketches. Maybe I harvest the ideas that have been growing all summer. Maybe the knowledge that winter is creeping up behind scares my subconscious into spilling the beans. In any case October is always good to me. And thank the lord, because I spend the rest of the year secretly worrying that I am not an artist, not even close. Acting counts only when I am in front of the camera, and blogging… well, it depends on who you talk to.
My friend Galen, who is a ridiculously talented comic artist, disapproves of this line of thought. In his estimation, art extends beyond physically creation. He points to the art of conversation, the art of problem solving, and what about con artists? (I’m actually citing a conversation we had in high school here, so I hope I’m not misrepresenting him, if his views have changed.) His is a reassuring, if unconventional viewpoint.
The point is, October brings me respite from my artistic insecurities. I might not jam out on the stand-up bass or paint dinosaurs, but one month a year I write poems and little songs, and it gives me some satisfaction. Steve and Rebecca and I were talking recently about our respective adolescent poetry experiences, and how emo poetry readings should make a comeback. Or more specifically, we should find our high school poems and read them to each other at Denny’s or something.
Happy Halloween!