Oh Come ON.

It's been some time now, and I hate that fact.  I hate the fact that things can only be kept going while I'm more or less depressed or bored or exhausted.  Why do I have to be good at complaining but absolutely lousy at explaining why things are awesome and, I should add, are likely to remain awesome for the foreseeable future?

The hell of it is, I love a happy ending.  I want everyone to get at least one story that ends happily, but for whatever reason every time I end happily I have this voice saying "it didn't last, you know.  Snow White got old or her people realized how brutal she'd been to the previous queen and threw her out on her ass; the prince got poisoned by a bad bit of fish and died, and life was nasty, brutish, and short.  Which is an outright lie, of course.  The bit of me that enjoys writing, that secretly hopes that something happens in 2012 (not the end of the world, but I'm quite partial to the thought that magic will return and we'll have wizards and dragons again) and is generally happy in the world wants to tell a story, goddammit, and it will probably never get the chance because I come up with happy endings when I'm happy, and when I'm happy I tend not to be able to write.

Until today, which finds me not thrilled but certainly less angry than usual, making a post about not being able to write.  Writing about writer's block.  Confessing, here and now, that I need very badly to stop reading so much poetry because every time I do I get the urge to try writing it again.

I'm not a fan of the poems I write.  I resist the urge whenever possible, but the Language poets seem to have their hooks in me, if only because I cannot help but like the idea of just throwing words together because they sound neat rather than because of any great meaning they may have.  That's the sort of thing that makes me think strange thoughts, and having never (at least not in recent memory) written anything that rhymes consistently or at all it's got me rather intrigued.  We'll see what happens, but I warn you that it could all come to nothing.  In fact; it probably will come to nothing, and that ain't just the cynicism talking.  That's good old fashioned common sense.

Fucking Charles Bernstein and his Klupzy Girls.