Tag Archives: “Renegade”

“‘Cause I’m a RENEGADE! Never Been Afraid To Talk About Anything! ANYTHING!”

Last night, I was told that I no longer rant on this here rant-blog of mine.

Yep.  A devoted reader who has been with me from week one of my creative trip (or tripping) has admitted the following:  Were he to join my readership now, he would view me very differently from the hot-tempered, opinionated, loud-mouthed, pain-in-the-ass, pro-woman woman that began doing her rant-blogging two-thirds of the year ago.

“You sound like a writer now,” he said, lingered a bit and added:  “But I would still want to ask you out though.  Maybe even more so!”

Mmm-kay.

“You used to sound so angry, almost bitter,” another one granted his opinion, the other day.  And then, he did actually ask me out.

True that:  What started this project originally was my decade-long participation in gender wars (and I’m not really sure mine was winning).  But having never published on the topic of dating before, I had a lot to unload.

Now:  I’ve been writing — for years!  I’m talking as soon as I could make sense of the Russian alphabet (which is NOT an easy task).  Later on, after attempting to master the English alphabet (a slightly easier task), I would begin writing for cash.  It was mostly criticism, at the time; but with the exception of my editorial bits for the college newspaper, I rarely indulged myself in publishing my rants.  And as far as relationships went, all that stuff was being kept secret in my journals.  (Speaking off:  Where the hell are the ones from high school?  Oh, boy!)

Before embarking on this year’s project of blogging, as a devout nerd that I am — I first did research.  A shit load of it!  For hours, I would sit in front of my aged computer  and measure myself against the blogosphere full of other opinionated — talented or just loud-mouthed, or both — writers.  Could I really do this?  At the time, I was at the beginning of a new relationship, so I thought what better way to introduce my inner workings of a nerd to my partner.  In a way, I was flaunting the side of me I was no longer willing to tame:  I’m a writer.  Deal with it!

And from the shit load of my research, two particular pieces of advice got branded into my nerdy brain:

One:  You must publish on a regular basis.  Your readers expect it.

And,

Two:  Make sure it’s authentic — to you.

It made sense.  The entire purpose of my public coming-out as a writer was to seek my readership.  Before entertaining my entering the blogosphere, that readership was a mere daydream of mine:  It would have to happen in an old-fashioned way, after years and years of working on my manuscript — and then a few more years of trying to sell and finally publish that thing.  A career of a blogger, however, promised to give me a shortcut:  The process of publishing seemed instantaneous.

However, back in those days, even I could not have predicted that there was nothing instantaneous about it:  I don’t know about the other talented or loud-mouthed colleagues of mine, but each day, it takes anywhere between four to five hours to write, continuously edit, post, repost — edit, again! — and promote the damn thing.  It’s a shit load of work!

But then again, I knew that dedication would not be scarce in me.  As for the authenticity, I had to make sure that the topic to which I devoted these four to five hours a day would be exciting enough to ignite my passion.  And because I generally don’t half-ass anything in life — neither in art, nor in relationships — I knew I would have to write about it every day.  Because that’s why I was entertaining entering the blogosphere in the first place, right:  for the instantaneous readership?

What topic could be more exciting than love, I thought.  And even then, I knew that by love I meant a state of my soul — not a tedious or confusing chase of the opposite gender while fighting these frustrating gender wars, in which I myself was definitely NOT winning.  At first, I would start writing about dating and would hope that all of the other subjects of my love would follow.  (They did.)

The very first story I instantaneously published was a bit inspired by my dating experience as one man’s rebound.  Some of it was fictionalized (um, about ten percent of it); and the rest — was pathos, which was true to the rebound nature of that relationship.  And right off the bat, I wasn’t mellow in my writing.  No:  I was hot-tempered and loud-mouthed.  Having written the piece years ago in my journal, I began amending it for my readership (i.e. molding it into art).  But even then, months before I would finally publish it, I began to be aware that the driving force of my writing was not just love — as a permanent state of my soul — but compassion.

Because in actuality, what made me a writer in the first place was my life-long fandom of the human race.  That’s what all those tomes and tomes of journaling had been about.  And long before I would become a writer — and even longer before I would become a blogger — I was a devout reader:  A nerd.  I studied humanity, devoured tales of its nature.  And in those tales, I always managed to find some hope, and plenty of love.

Two-thirds of the year later, the style of my writing has indeed changed.  I no longer rant on the topics of dating, and I especially no longer attempt to write about relationship advice.  Look:  I am not an expert on that.  I’m just a toy soldier in this silly, frustrating fight between two camps of lovers.  But what I do have some expertise in — is living a life of compassion:  A life driven by a loving spirit.

And speaking of love (for the sake of my instantaneous readership still interested in asking me out):  Yes, I am a single woman.  I am a hot-tempered, opinionated, loud-mouthed pain-in-ass; disciplined, hard-working writer whose greatest subject — is love.  Neither in my private nor public life do I disguise it:  I’m an artist.  Deal with it!

And even though I anticipate that with this year’s coming-out as a writer, I had made my dating life even more complicated and frustrating, the actual loving — has gotten easier.  After all, I practice it every day, in my writing.  The art has gotten easier as well; and there is nothing I would rather do, on a daily basis, than to write four to five hours — in pursuit of my DAILY, instantaneous readership.

“And Do You Have Any Clue: What I Had to Do — to Get Here?”

“Hey, baby!  When I write — I am the hero of my own shit.”

I watched Hank last night.  I watched his beat-up, used-up, lived-in, wasted, wrinkled, exhausted face with traces of pockmarks digging into his skin like tear trails; and I let his effortless voice lullaby me to sleep:  a meowing of an aged cat on my doorstep, so demented he had forgotten all other pleasures in life but eating and fucking.  But mostly eating though, at this point:  Fucking — had become too strenuous for his joints.

It was a documentary, and a short one at that:  How do you make an epic about someone without an epic life?  Hank had insisted on living among us — that fuckin’ Bukowski! — that dirty, old man, ridden with vices and women, dwelling in his destiny but never groveling; and surviving his own compassion, day after day.  Elevating himself above the rest of us wasn’t his type of behavior.  No, he left that to his colleagues — the pretentious poets who always wished to write about their suffering but who haven’t lived enough, among us, to know what that’s like:  To suffer.  Because suffering — is bad for one’s skin.  (Just look at Hank’s face:  That fuckin’ Bukowski was a wreck!)  And it’s scary.  Suffering is scary.  So, they left it all — to Hank.

Instead, the pretentious poets got themselves jobs as critics and professors.  They became people of higher esteem:  “The professionals”.  People would pay them for their opinions and carefully manipulated big words.  (The bigger the words — the more esteemed the professor.)  And the professionals would wonder how could they suddenly run out of things to write about.  They would try to write about their tired marriages and affairs with their students.  But boredom always makes for terrible plots.  So, they’d return to their criticism and conference papers, with carefully manipulated big words about anything but suffering.

“What are your plans after graduation?” I remember my own teachers prying during the last year of college; and before they could wait for my answer, they’d spew out:  “You should teach!”

“Really?!” I’d think to myself.  “You mean you don’t want me to go backpacking through Europe and learn a dozen of languages from the pillow talks with my future fifty foreign lovers?”

But I wouldn’t say that.  In those days, my intuition wasn’t perfected yet; so I wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the source of that nausea invoked by those well-wishing mentor chats.  Instead, I would just listen, tormented with doubts and restlessness, and with my own temptations for a more esteemed life.  And then, I would look at my watch, demonstratively, and I would say:

“Ow!  I better get to the diner:  I’m working a double to-night.”

Esteem.  It’s kind of like beauty, right?  It’s in the eye of the beholder.  Except that with esteem, you are the beholder — AND you are the subject.  So, it’s entirely up to you, this esteem thing, despite all the other suffering.

There would be many more waitressing gigs, after graduation, and office gigs, and freelance gigs, and gigs of self-employment — all of which I insisted on committing with esteem.  There would be esteem in serving a table full of cops at 4 a.m. who would flirt and get rowdy, like college boys in love with their substitute teacher; and one of them would always offer to give me a ride home, in his black-and-white Ford.  (Later, sometimes, they would drive down my street and wave:  Heya, pretty!  It made me feel like others feel when they come home.)

There would be esteem in finding the patience to handle a hysterical student with no knowledge of English at my daytime campus gig, when the rest of my employers just wouldn’t have the time for her fearful nonsense.  (Later, she would pass me in the cafeteria — still a child in her age, made even more helpless by her venture in a foreign country — and she would smile at me, with something that combined gratitude and a very fragile secret.)

And there would be more esteem in taking the last train out New York City after my internship at yet another editorial department where I would become adopted by a group of esteemed professionals — or the poets to whom they vowed to cater.

And then, of course, there would be my fifty future foreign lovers, teaching me their languages during our pillow talks.  But mostly, they would teach me the language of my own humanity.  And there would be plenty of esteem in learning that my compassion would never fail, no matter the messy ending to each loverly story; and no matter the suffering that came with it.

To the effortless voice of Hank, I had fallen asleep last night:  He was reading his shit at some poetry hall in San Francisco, filled to the brim with hollering humanity.  And the audience would cheer him on every time he tipped his beer bottle into his crooked, wet mouth.  He would chug it down, like a man dying of thirst, smile fleetingly and bashfully at the dividends of his compassion — and the dividends of all that suffering; and he would resume meowing out his poetry.  Sometimes, he would raise a ruckus while taunting somebody in the audience:  To him, it would be just another bar fight.  But he would always seem so much calmer, when in the midst of doing his shit.

“the price of creation

is never

too high.

the price of living

with other people

always 

is.”

And yet, he would insist on living among us — that fuckin’ Bukowski! — that dirty, old man, ridden with vices and women, dwelling in his destiny but never groveling; surviving his own compassion, day after day.  Being too good for others — was not his type of behavior.  No, he left that to his esteemed colleagues:  “The professionals”.

And if he could, he would kiss every one of us on the mouth, the same way he kissed his women:  pornographically and with an open, wet mouth, smelling of rye.  Because no matter the price, we were his beholders AND his subjects; and with that, we granted him — his esteem.

We made his life — his tortured, used-up life worth his suffering.  And he would be one of us, becoming “the hero of [his] shit” — even when he wrote about others; when he wrote — about us.