he told me that before he sat down to write
--   At dusk at dusk it has to be at dusk
at his desk
beside his readied companion  a tumbler of whisky

he ingested a Quaalude

he smiled
smiled confidently  as if he thought I might find his admission  --  if it were true  --   
quaint                                                                                                                                                  --   My  he drawled  creativity  is inspired by disassociation  HA Ludely inspired if 
you would


Clever  I would not be so gallant  he thought  if my artistry were nothing more than a
sham
a Tom Sawyers punishment to whitewash his Aunt Pollys fence
who circumnavigated his labor  as shrewd conman would
and had his friends paint it  and pay him in the offing


Wordsworth had a different Prelude
he described his as “an auxillary light” that changed everything it shone upon
“An auxiliary light
Came from my mind which on the setting sun
Bestowed new splendor, the melodious birds,
The gentle breezes, fountains that ran on,
Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed
A like dominion; and the midnight storm
Grew darker in the presence of my eye . . . ”

a Quaalude would never write that

or Coleridge
his Frost at Midnight
frost as metaphor                                                                                                     
it freezes the evening dew into icicles “Quietly shining to the quiet Moon”

“The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind.”


as frost transforms
and an auxiliary light changes 

Nature  for each poet  is the gamechanger
 

so it stood to reason to him  that unless a Quaalude is naturally formed
he is cheating

he is misinformed
he misinforms

a writer has to be true to the underlying sentiment which inspired his writing  poetry
his fiction 
it is a means to an end  a road traveled to a destination


for himself  he often didnt arrive where he intended to go
hed begin
then something crossed his path  bedeviled him  and he followed it  a bloodhound on a 
bear
until it slipped him

he didnt have a very good nose
it was just good enough   to entice him to pursue something else
his sentiment then  was to be honest to what he found


it was worth the cold air  cold water
the way the sky moved behind the naked tree limbs
or the sun threw its crackled shadow down like an old man and stomped his bones
how the ants and insects feasted
the birds flew overhead laughing
or the moon rose and buried his remains in its cool silver light
musings  not praying
and dogs chained up in backyards howled  like they thought wolves might
and a neighbor wakes irritated  goes to the bathroom to urinate  cusses through the 
open window
and returning to bed he catches his foot on the Persian runner rug in the hall and snaps 
his neck on the oak baseboard he painstakingly refinished
above  the crown moulding mocks  I told you so


Creativity is there
if only you look

2349,  Thursday,  4  9. 14