The WITNESS of the Waking State speaks

Nan has realized that one of her  more insightful poems appears on page 9 of her Time Wrinkles :

Here’s the thing:

I’ve been talking

through this

loudspeaker I

found in my crib

82 years ago and

just now notice

it’s not plugged in!

Upon waking from a nap today Nan reviewed her life and called upon her Witness of the Waking State to help her take stock. She’s temporarily lost the name of the book she got me from, but it has to do with the One who observes our fleeting emotions and steadfastly remains.

She’s been caught in a web without the spider. Throughout her life she’s been dropping writing spoor along the way.  She’s been trying to be heard but has nothing to say. Decades spent via Public Access television, with nobody watching.  Months spent now on Word Press with a couple of visitors.  Books published with almost no readers. What is she doing!  She’s been responding to the itch by scratching, declaring to an empty auditorium.  Pig-headed, she continues to forge ahead, squealing.

MORE TO FOLLOW….

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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