The Lover I Abandon

I can't describe to you the insatiable desire I've had to write. To pull out the brown leather notebook sitting in the closet, the one with notes upon notes and prose and poetry in it, all dedicated to Ezra Pound and Hilda Doolittle, and just write the damn story. The story I've been meaning to write for six years now. I write here and there, but I've had this desire to hunker down and turn out page after page of whatever, nonsense maybe, as long as something gets written.

Because this story, the one about Ezra and Hilda, is becoming a thorn on the blooming rose of my heart. I don't know why it's so important - I knew many years ago - but things have changed and yet...the story remains important to me. 

I hear Ezra in the thunder, imagine him standing outside my door just waiting. Hilda is a ghost of a woman sitting beside me, whispering, write it now, write it now, write it now. And it's scary!

And so why don't I write it now? Because I have social obligations or blog posts to write or business ideas to think about or networking to do. Sure, I can believe all that, but what if it's because I'm afraid to show up at the page, wait for the story, but the story never comes.

All I know is I've had an ache in my bones this week. I can't think when I'm reading or writing other things. All I see is that leather notebook sitting in the closet, just waiting.

Happy birthday, Ezra.

Procrastinating (not writing my novel)

(I make desktop wallpaper for "inspiration")

Ezra
I have known you

in the hush of trees
in autumn's amber light
in fields of summer sunsets

Ezra
I have known you

in the hurting sea
and in the distant city lights
remembering all the nights

when my heart was dark and blind

Contemptuous

My iGoogle daily literary quote is from Ezra Pound - one whom I have had a love and loathe relationship with since college.

"It ought to be illegal for an artist to marry. If the artist must marry let him find someone more interested in art, or his art, or the artist part of him, than in him. After which let them take tea together three times a week."

Or

Worship me and/or be less of an artist than I so that I may mold you and then, when my work is done, leave you squirming in the dirt of my passé ideas.

Perhaps I judge too harshly. I have only read things from, mostly, Hilda Doolittle's point of view. I think I identify with her too much to give Ezra any sort of credit. And yet, still, I find him to be most intriguing as you would find a poet, dark romantic soul, treat-you-like-dirt, but charming bad boy to be.

From Ezra

I love these lines from "The Arches" by Ezra Pound...

Yea alway had I longed to hold real dreams
Not laboured things we make beneath the sun
But such as come unsummoned in our sleep...

If only you could see what I see...

I finished end to torment, a memoir of Ezra Pound whilst on my lunch break. Well, not entirely. I still have to read "Hilda's Book," which is at the end. It's a collection of poems Ezra wrote to Hilda. I'm pretty excited about it because sadly, I've never read any of EP's pre-modernism work and I don't care much for his modernist ramblings.

Finishing the book and reading through a rather large biography on H.D. prompts me to start writing the story I have in mind. It will be based on their relationship. But another part of me just wants to keep researching. I think it's an excuse, really. I have enough to start writing, but perhaps I'm afraid. Afraid the beautiful things I have in my mind won't transfer onto paper. Well, of course they won't! Not at first. Haven't I learned that by now?

I once got a fortune that read, "You are good with words and should write a book." I plan on taking that advice, but just have to stop writing all these books in my head. People aren't mind readers!