Now that I've been given a chance to reflect it hardly seems possible. I have always had a problem with this exercise because my memory is less than satisfactory. I imagine that I have some dreadful cataloguing error which stores my life in the places I can never look. Regardless, I find myself coming up short when contemplating successes and failures and lessons learned. However, I know that I have succeeded and failed and learned quite a lot, but I think I absorb these events into my very character so that I am indistinguishable from my very actions. If one must know how I've succeeded or failed or what it is that I have learned, they must only know me. That being said I can speak to one specific risk and arguable success this past year in the realm of poetry. I have always written poetry since middle school (albeit bad), but my craft has been improving steadily so that by sophomore year, I started to rather enjoy some of the words that I arranged. This year, I learned of the "Teen Howl Poetry Series" which takes place the first Thursday of every month, and I decided to see what it was about. Upon attending I learned that it was an open mic opportunity for young poets to read their work with a chose feature reader closing with multiple poems. My second time attending I read and was received with great enthusiasm. By March, I myself was the feature reader, and I continue to read each month. I feel quite validated by the whole experience because most of my art in every form is kept in my head, never reaching the ears or eyes or minds of others. Junior year has been an experience in itself just as any other year, and I think it would be inappropriate to compare it to others. I have had incredible highs and treacherous lows, and I think I will be alright. This summer, I hope to get working on my script and score for my mentoring project film. I hope to get back to running now that it's warm out. I hope to use this free time to record the countless albums that I have written and resounding in my head. I fear many things, but to commit them to bits would dignify them in some way, so I think I'd better not. Senior year will be a chance for me to buckle down and face my impending reality. I will try to have fun though. I'll close with a poem that I wrote for my feature performance.
Somniorum Opus When I, weary and broken, collapse into comfort, I am not going to sleep. Sleep is a vulgar practice For its cruel command over all times Forcing its thick veil over every mind At the slightest exertion. No, the relief I seek is more rare and complete. Slumber, deep and satisfying. True repose. But though my body may lie contorted in delight, My mind takes to flight, escaping at last to paradise. The magnificence of dreams, so it seems, is infinite. It's... The warm embrace, The seamless transition to superconsciousness, This natural tendency for the magical That is so extraordinary. Always staged in mindful hybrids Of former homes and schools and churches, My dreams soak in nostalgia and longing, Above all a passage back to youth and unresolved tension. My dreams allow for expression, Unhindered by fear of reproach and rejection. They are a sanctuary.
No even in nightmares, This black plane from which I raise my empire Is not the clutch of death but is a life itself.
Yet, so foolishly, I covet a moment of control, For what beauty might escape the touch of man? What grace might remain unsoiled? It's all a veritable sea of Freudian associations, Extending out past eternity. So abandon wakeful aims, brave sailor, When so delightfully inanimate. Bask in its immediacy and grandeur, For it has surpassed reason For if even a brief moment of jumbled clarity. And... though I hardly remember my travels, Sometimes I just wake up smiling.
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