Some days you awake and its a warm kitchen with Mickey mouse pancakes and the kids lovin' "daddy can I help!""sure honey, I need you and brother to mix the batter" and neither knows what batter is and brother can barely move the whisk through the mixture- but it doesn't matter, right? Just like it doesn't matter if your heart is breaking and your crying your eyes out while your writing what you write, no matter what kinds of techniques you've developed as a writer or what person you've decided to put the voice of the piece in, our armor can only be so thick 'till you can no longer wear it, you're still there offering yourself to everyone and anyone willing to take- it doesn't matter what you're doing, or how you're feeling or how much you give. It only matters how the reader feels and how much they WANT TO TAKE! We are defined by how much of us people will take.
Some days you awake with the weight of the world sitting on your chest, your knees and your knuckles aware of the weather before you are, the weight of providing, the weight of making a life out of this existence sitting upon you dense and inanimate. And you know you didn't invent this stress. You know you're not the first one to feel it. You know you're not the only one who carries this weight; but sometimes it feels that way. And I'm sorry Job but you do not help. And Mr. Bloom, beyond Shakespeare you sir are tits on a bull.
give me Keats, give me Wilde give me Heaney, Eliot, Hemingway, Joyce, Kerouac, Hugo, Plath, Stevens, Alexi, Marquez, Dostoyevsky, Hesse, Dickens, Morrison, Mark, Luke or John but I have had all I can take of parasitic critics sucking the genius out of the enthios, the divine, the quinta essentia of art!
some nights you go in to check on your children and you turn to shut the curtain and you do see the frost settling on the window and think of Romantic poets and how all the different elements of life were closing in on them and affecting their lives and their work and just for a moment you believe you can keep that world out and you can protect the most innocent and beautiful things you have ever known in your life...But alas there's your sleep deprivated image of William Blake sitting in the Rocking Chair in the corner of your living room, slowly back and forth rocking across Thel's traechia as she lie innocently on the floor, Blake's laughing, not mean spiritedly but laughing out of EXPERIENCE knowing one day you will open the door and watch your children walk innocently into a world of weight, frost and experience...