On Writing

The best and worst part about being back at my house is finding all of the old files and papers lost in the move. It's mostly a lot of old stories, half-written and unfortunately not quite halfway decent. I've decided, today, that poetry, is subjective. If you say it's good, then it is, mostly 'cause it can be about whatever. Everything and nothing in convenient free-form. But these stories? Isn't it funny how things can seem really good when you're in the moment...

Funny-haha, but mostly funny-depressing-fact-of-life. Definition. Artist. One who's creative work, in any given medium, withstands time and is still good after multiple viewings.

Alternate definition. Artist. Not...Me...And if you want to know a secret, I still lack the fine motor skills to color inside the lines. It's okay though. My world is colorless. Or maybe it's lineless. I'll never know. I'll never tell.

Actual definition. Artist. Not important.

I found the beginning lines to a story I wrote. Just the first few sentences but the whole story came flooding back to me. I never got it on paper. It's better that way.

It was the story of a guy named Milk.

And Milk was afraid to be alone and therefore managed to spend every moment of his waking and unconcious life in the company of others, often strangers.

Milk meets a girl.

The girl gives him AIDs.

And tragically, in the end, after all of his carefully measured efforts to never spend one second by himself, he dies. In his sleep. When the girl thought it was safe to just step outside for a quick cigarette.

And after the funeral, she finds out she's pregnant.

I couldn't decide whether to let it stop there or to finish with the AIDs related death of mother and unborn child. That's probably why I never wrote it down. It wasn't his real name, you know, Milk. I gave this guy such an elaborate history all to prevent giving him a real name. No Charlies or Daves for me. No sir.

Remember that time I wrote that whole piece without ever giving a name or gender to the main character? No, of course you wouldn't. It seemed like a great idea at the time. I was proud of that.

This story, my Milk story, was a masterpiece of thought. Still is. And I won't ruin it by putting it on paper. That would require an artist.

Not...me...