You Are Your Own Worst Critic

Perhaps my brain is just too busy. It's a burden that creative people face day-to-day. We are our own martyrs. As well as our own worst critics.

I went to the doctor's office for a physical, and during the physical they ask you a series of questions. My favorite question of all is "do you consider yourself depressed, or sometimes feel hopeless, helpless, or like you can't get out of bed in the morning to go to work, or be social?"

I laughed when she finished reading the question and answered truthfully.

"From a realist's perspective, yeah. You bet your ass."

"It sort of comes with adulthood," the doctor said.

"That's why I write," I decided to say. "It keeps me from driving around at night, by myself, listening to sad songs and wondering what would happen if I just got on the highway and drove until the wheels fell of my Chrysler."

And you know something, I think she understood me perfectly.

I hope that doctor went home and wrote a poem of her own. Something that she didn't have to share, but something that she could stick in a drawer somewhere in her fancy house with all the others. Each one a loyal reminder of a dying dream.

I know... It got a little deep and depressing. I'll turn the tide now. But it will turn slowly.

I received my quickest rejection letter ever today. It only took them four hours to read, consider, and fire my short story out of an ass cannon. It was after reading the email that I began to reflect back on when I first started doing this, how little I care about what some editor thinks of my work, and how I beat myself up over content and during the revision process (editing my own work is my least favorite thing to do, but the most important).

For the record, it takes a lot out of me to re-read these posts and make sure they are somewhat grammatically correct.

I had this job as a medical editor (please don't fall asleep [even though I did one time]) and, well, I hated it. Liked my coworkers (miss some of them), but could not tolerate the editor above me (I was the Assistant Editor). She was in charge of giving me work, but never helped me learn my position. Now, I hooked the job with my charm, but I didn't know AMA Style to save my life; however, that didn't prevent me from trying my damnedest. My work was never good enough, but even when it was, she would still find flaws because I didn't do it her way. She also stole a few of my ideas and took all the credit. I had had enough. And, when I have had enough, an outlaw does emerge. And a filter becomes harder and harder to locate.

One day, out of the blue, we were talking about books (we both read during lunch every day), and how the creative process works. Now, she's an editor first and nothing second. Her life is just rules and routine. I am a writer first, all the fun stuff in between, and an editor dead last. So, in this instance, I had the upper hand in the conversation. So, I gave my viewpoint about the creative process being a painful, but amazing one. And then I finished by saying that "a writer is their own worst editor."

That comment pissed her off. She couldn't fathom how someone who wrote something couldn't edit their own work (she completely missed the part where I talked about how a writer is also hesitant about what they want to delete, add, or change to their story). So, she threw a hissy, and I followed with "Well, it doesn't matter because you'll never understand something like that. You're not a writer."

Boom-shaka-laka.

She hated me for three months after that. Then they let me go to bring back an old employee who was friends with the editor.

I would just like to add that the morning I was let go, she, the editor, cried. My supervisor also cried. I did not. The director of yada-yada-blah-blah-horseshit had to "fire" me because she never took the time to get to know me. She just judged me from afar. So, it was easy for her.

I think that the company was against true individuals with personalities.

I was so happy when it was all over. I went back home, ate breakfast, took a nap, mixed a drink when I woke up, made a phone call, and, four days later, I had another full-time job as an innkeeper (we'll talk about that shit later). Looking back, the job had a positive outcome because I'm a better editor, it led me to live where I do now, and it was the turning point towards finding the awesome job that I have now. I also got some stories and poems out of it all.

Poems and stories that I have to spend time editing, submitting, and beating myself up over.

Gotta love it.

Yours,

~Torres

Take the Heming-way

Hemingway said that you should write 400 meaningful words and make 'em count.

Some days, I'm lucky if I can form a single predicate. And, I can guarantee you, that this will be the last thing that I write tonight (10:15 p.m. on Wednesday, June 25, 2014) before I give up and resume this post on another night. Poetry is the only thing that really rockets out like a beer shit (a good, albeit gross, Bukowski reference).

And I'm back (two nights later).

Hemingway was also a dude who drained the marrow out of life. Tried new things. Lost a testicle in war. You know, the usual stuff... 

I wouldn't suggest the latter, but if it floats your boat, I'm not gonna stop ya. 

By the way, here is the info for my next feature that is coming up. I copied straight from the email that was blasted out to those that are on the readings mailing list.

"Farley’s Bookshop Poets Series welcomes poets Brian Fanelli and Ryan Torres for a reading and book signing Thursday, July 3, at 7 p.m. Farley’s is located at 44 South Main Street, New Hope, PA 18938. Phone 215-862-2452."

Boom! Hope to see you there. For now though.... poesy.
___________________________________________

The Liar 
 

The cell phone danced

and buzzed

like a dying moth

on the shellacked mahogany

before the bald bastard retrieved it

and stuck it to his dome.

“Yes? Okay.

Well, I can’t.

I’m at the store.

I’m sorry.

Yeah.

I’ll be home soon.

They don’t have what I need.”

He hung up.

“Kids,”

he said,

as he winked at the waitress

and lifted his scotch

from the barstool across from me.

___________________________________________

Cheers!

~Torres

A Typewriter With Guts

Some people look at me strangely when I tell them that I write the majority of my poetry on one of the 17 typewriters that I own.

I think it's because I'm not a hipster...

Before I forget, here are the details to my featured reading that is coming up:

What:  A featured reading for myself and another gentleman (I don't know his name). We each get
             20 minutes to read and then there is a Q&A.
When:  July 3rd at 7:00 PM
Where: Farley's bookstore in New Hope, PA (look it up online if you don't know where it is.
              It's an amazing place.)

* I will be selling copies of my chapbook "Brain Droppings and Other Poems" to benefit the ATG Learning Academy; a non-profit school for children with learning disabilities (we're trying to start a community garden).

That should do it as far as the facts go. Let me know if you need any other info.

Now, back to typewriters...

I own a lot of them, and it's not because I have a habit of running out to antique stores and buying them in bulk (I don't. I'm broke.). It's because they are usually gifts from friends and relatives. It's an awesome thing because when I sit down to write, and end up finishing a poem, I get to tell that person that I gave man-birth to prose on the machine that they were kind enough to give me (There's a nice image for you "graphic" types).

Typewriters have also been a great source of inspiration for me because of the noise that they make. The clacking of keys, the ding of the carriage's bell, and the humming of the electric models are bits of the machine's personality that I have peppered into several poems and stories for the past couple years. Below is an old poem.
_____________________________________
 

The Redhead and the Typewriter

I was watching a film

about an old drunk

who was attempting to read poetry

over the sounds

of a bloodthirsty audience

when she decided to play

with my typewriter.

“What’s this thing?”

she asked.

“That’s the size selector,”

I replied.

She slid the machine in front of her

and began pushing the keys

ever. So. Softly.

“Come on,” I said.

“This is where the battles are fought.

You gotta push those keys.

A typewriter is like a boxing match:

you gotta hit back harder.”

She began to push the keys

with more effort.

And as she winced at the pain

that was being inflicted upon

her fingertips

the gunshots grew louder,

and I began having flashbacks to when I first started

the war.

She then reached the end of the margin,

heard the bell signal for the next round,

and looked at me.

“Pull that metal bar in and slide it

until it sticks,”

I said.

She did.

And then,

fell silent

until she was done.

She then grabbed the paper,

turned the knob,

and the page was free

from its beating.

She leaned in and kissed me.

You can’t read this,”

she told me,

as she folded it into a square

and left the room.

And since I didn’t get to read,

Or hear,

what she wrote,

neither do you.

 ___________________________________

Decent... Needs work. But, then again, I've always been hard on myself when it comes to this shit.

Yours,

~Torres

Do You Remember Life's Simple Pleasures?

It's becoming more and more evident that we are losing touch with the simple things that make us human.

Life is not a Pepsi commercial. It isn't the ridiculousness of money-driven organizations telling people how they should live their lives while promising paradise and freedom. Paradise is in the escape from these so-called "norms." Freedom is in constant pursuit of meaning. Something that can only be heightened by an insatiable appetite for asking questions.

The thirst of knowledge is never quenched once you take the first sip.

I wanted to mention that the Newtown Library Company is having a feature reading tomorrow (Friday) at 8 p.m. There will be an open mic afterwards. Stop out if you can. I plan on being there to listen and read.

I went to a farm where my friend works yesterday to see the lay of the land and to swap some literature. I left there with a copy of "The First Lady Chatterley" by D.H. Lawrence (a man who could write like his soul was on fire). The poem below is what came to me. (Remember what I said about introductions?)
___________________________________________________
Lawrence Among the Spring Harvest

I came in search
of Lady Chatterley
among a field
of fresh dill
and tomato plants
ripe with purpose.

And there was talk of poetry
between the cinnamon
and liquorice taste
of Japanese Mint
in it's velvet cocoon. 

You mentioned how you were inspired
by the lemon basil,
a spirit herb,
that pulled the prose out of you
every time you added it to your tea.

I felt like I could breathe
for the first time
in an eternity of
every-day-life.

I too brought D.H. Lawrence.

Your 1950's hardcover--
a perfect handheld--
in exchange for
my copy--
A token from my college days--
full of notes
in red ink.

We called it a fair trade
as the sun began to set
and the hunting dog
found shade under an old
pickup truck.

Poetry,
like produce,
if left to die on the vine,
is a shameful waste.
____________________________________________

Many thanks. Hope to see you out tomorrow.

Yours,

~Torres

Open to Interpretation

It bothers me when people insist on taking too much time to describe exactly why they had to paint, write, take a photo of, or compose a particular piece of art.

Wait for someone to ask. That's how you determine whether or not they actual give a shit. I believe that the longer it takes to describe something will ultimately reflect how little your audience will know, or care to know, about the subject matter. Let the work speak for itself. We sit in on poetry readings because we want to shut the world out for a moment and listen to what someone has to share. We do the same thing at galleries and concerts.

I went to a reading at one of my favorite bookstores at the beginning of this month and there was an open mic. Now, I'm all for reading one or two when the opportunity arises because I've only been featured four times since I moved to the area (if you run a poetry event and need a featured reader, feel free to ask [wink, wink]). However, there is always the chance that a few "unique" individuals will show up.

One person in particular was an older gentleman that had self-published a book of poems and insisted on telling us about how he chose the pictures, and how he laid out his book to include descriptions of what inspired him to write the poems.

Honestly, I don't agree with it. But it's not my place to twist your arm if I don't agree with your shenanigans. But then, humble reader, this guy decided to read the descriptions, which were longer than the poems, and then the poetry, which was, in my opinion, pretty bad. They were "bad" because they were grocery lists, not poetry. There was a list of fruits and vegetables in one poem, and a list of emotions in another. And the poems were long. Way too long. Like having a one-sided conversation with an attention starved narcissist long (been there, done that).

I know he will never read this post, but I still would like to offer him this example. Please pay attention to how I introduce one of my own poems, and then, allow the audience to interpret it for themselves.

"I had a dream about Salvador Dali last night. This is what I wrote the following morning when I woke up."

Dali's Wasteland

From rooms 

longing for roses

and yerba mate 

we wait patiently

for miracles.

Welcoming deception

like a new lover 

who has never seen the price paid

for affection

before tonight. 

I dreamt about melting clocks

on sweat slicked sheets

in June heat

as they dripped time

like mercury in retrograde.

I dreamt about 

the trees and platforms that held them.

And about the weight of the world 

that could not.

You. Were. Drugs.

Sending correspondence

from life's gentle circus,

as a ship with butterfly sails

moved gracefully away

on waters 

that were too calm

to believe

in reincarnation.

I. Am. Not.

Chanting

as I navigate the dessert landscape 

back to reality 

because the one clock that the heat

could not kill 

sounded its electric sting.

The ship reached eternity,

and consciousness met the dawn

like a fresh canvas

awaiting the approval

of life. 

________________________________________

What are your thoughts?

I'm here if you are in need of a fistfight. Or want to grab a drink sometime.

Cheers,

~Torres

The Beating of a Lifetime

Beat night was Wednesday night. Always an adventure. A group of creative people from different backgrounds getting together to share poetry and stories, wine, and munchies without violence or debate. Why, that sounds like an absolute utopia, doesn't it? Now, if only society acted in a similar fashion...

Everyone seemed to be on fire with their works. There were also a fair amount of new faces. On a personal note, I was able to feed off of the energy that was generated in that group and ended up writing two poems while I was there.

If you haven't come to Beat Night, you should definitely try. The poets and writers will definitely leave you feeling inspired (the perfect cure for writer's block). See you there.

On another note, I'm trying to figure out what to work on next. Some people who have bought my first book "Brain Droppings and Other Poems" have already asked me if another chapbook is in the works. Well, there is always something in the works, but I also want to keep cracking away at my short stories.

I'm also looking for an illustrator. So, if anyone wants to draw creepy pictures for a book entitled "(Not Quite) Children's Tales," please let me know. That would be another project that got shelved because I cannot find an illustrator.

I'll post a poem next time. For now... slumber.

Feel free to comment and let me know you're out there.

Yours,

~Torres

Money For Nothin'....

Being broke sucks... But it's the price you can't pay for perfect inspiration.

I've been worried about money a lot lately. Touchy subject, I know. But fair. You're probably thinking "Jesus, who isn't worried about money, dude, seriously?" But there's always that rising feeling that something may happen and you won't have the means to cover your ass.

I see all walks of life in and out of Philadelphia, barreling down Route 611 toward New Hope, and back down into the valley of central Pennsylvania. The Nouveau Riche spending on lattes with faces of celebrities drawn in foam as little kids give their family pet to the humane society so that single mothers can afford groceries. There are a billion examples. However, paying attention to those examples is what gets some meaningful writing done.

Hope keeps desperation at bay. And, knowing that the emerging writers of the past found their voice, as well as their masterpieces, while they became survivalists of society, well... that drives me.

My case isn't as bad as most. Not even close. It's just an interesting topic to ponder before you sign another rent check. But... Then again, isn't it also interested that the easier it gets for people to sign away that rent check, the more they lose touch with what's most important in life? I'm sure you know where I'm going with that.

Okay, I'm done thinking about it... For now at least.

I feel better.

                                                            Johnny Cash - "Busted"


By the way...

Beat Night at New Hope Arts is tomorrow. Details are as follows:

Hope to see you there.

Cheers,

~Ryan

Sunday Morning Comin' Down

Like faith, this morning was a mystery to me.

Ever have that feeling that you don't know where you are as soon as you wake up? Happened to me today. It's true that I was back at my parent's house, in Lebanon, PA, after a long Saturday of waxing philosophical with everyone I came into contact with (and receiving about five birthday books from a very good friend). But, when I woke up in the morning, I felt out of place. It was as if I was missing out on something spectacular. My old room is empty except for a bed and a dresser, but staying there during my visits reminds me of my angst-filled teenage years. A time when the writing first began to come together and forge itself into a means of escape.

I shook off what is usually referred to as The Blues by going on a 9-mile bike ride with my father. He was one of the individuals whom I had the pleasure of bullshitting with yesterday about the meaning of it all. Then, he went and planted flowers in the yard; thus continuing the cycle of the Torres male. From melancholy we make our way towards acceptance by examining the world around us and creating (or sometimes destroying) something beautiful to leave our mark.

He ended up inspiring me.
 __________________________________________________

"Ah-Ha"

My father called it
the "Ah-ha" moment

He's never written poetry.

But he said
that in Maine
While in the harbor
The ship he stood next to
made him feel
like the head of a pin.

Small.
Insignificant.

Until he climbed
the nearby mountain range,
and the ship
became the pin.

That was when
he measured himself
against the weight of the world.

Then he proclaimed
"Ah-ha."

I made my proclamation
while standing on a beach.
I was trying to determine
how many drops of water
formed the Atlantic,
while I counted grains of sand
between my toes,
as millions of blades of grass
waved in the breeze
from their stations,
surrounding hundreds of houses.

"Ah-ha."

"Ah-ha,"
proclaimed Einstein
years before
from a similar setting.

"Is it better to be better than to be anything?"
I recited.

"Are there any original thoughts left?"
he asked.

"No," I replied.
"Just clever plagiarism."
____________________________________________________

Thanks, folks.

Cheers,

Ryan

Rejection Letter Mambo

Got another rejection letter today. And, truthfully, I love every single one of them. I love them because I've been able to see how they've evolved over the past couple of years. From the generic "Dear Writer," to "Dear Mr. Torres." And how they are getting more personalized. They work their vernacular to elaborate on why they can't squeeze me into their next issue; but, most of the time, it's the "good, but not quite good enough" approach. That's the approach that I'm getting used to. It keeps the fire burning. It keeps me moving forward. I've kept all the rejection letters I've ever received. One day I'll be able to wallpaper my entire apartment.

Writing poetry, or anything for that matter, has always been a silly thing to me. But, it is also necessary. So necessary that I can't figure out how those who do not create, or at least enjoy art, are able to wade through their lives without questioning things, or at the very least, enjoying something they love (if they can love) with all of their senses.
___________________________________________

Raspberry

I couldn’t sleep last night

So I stared at the Sun’s face

As it smiled at me from the tapestry

That hangs over our bedroom window.

To think,

Hours ago,

You were in awe

And ecstasy.

Your cheeks flushed

And as you tossed your hair back

And outlined your collar bone with your finger tips.

You told me

That I made you feel

Like a bowl

Of  raspberries.

Then our laughter filled the darkened apartment.

You make me feel

Like something I have always strived to be

Even when I feel like I’m losing.

I want to be

Like Leonard Cohen,

Famous by 33

And turn to music

Because I could.

You teach me that

Life could be more

Than sonnets

And odes

And epitaphs

Written

For the innocent

Or the damned.

It could mean writing

A happier poem

For things to come.

I know how much you like these.

____________________________________________

I'm always up for sharing what I've written. This particular poem was rejected 11 times before it was picked up by "Chapter and Verse," which is published by Geoff Evans in Southern France. Evans is a cool old guy. He came to the states and dropped in at the Arts Center in New Hope for one of our Beat Poetry Nights (2nd Wednesday of every month at 7:00 p.m.).

"Learn to love life so much that it pisses you off."

 Cheers,

~Torres

Testing the Waters

After my latest reading at the New Hope Arts in New Hope, Pa. on May 31, 2014, I decided that it was time to start a blog so that I could get my thoughts out, keep my skills sharp, and share my work with anyone who cares. Below is one of the poems that I read at the event. It is also one of the poems that will be in my new chapbook entitled "Moving to Dystopia."
__________________________________

Lonesome Is The Crow’s Nest

To think

Of a life

Where the ship never sails

Without you.

They remain at the dock

Patient

And yell your name

From the crow’s nest.

But we may have to swim this time.

Art.

All around you

They crave something beautiful

But formed

Reducing you to an onion

Shredding layers

Like peeling off the summer dress

Of an august princess.

Those who can’t take art for what it is

Want master’s of prose and poetry

By college degree alone.

Not by successful practioners of life.

Screeners of past voices.

Not Screams of perfected madness.

The writing of the dead revisited.

Not the teaching of life revitalized.

This is why

When the waves begin to calm

And the tempest changes direction

We paddle

Against the current

Until the waters begin to boil

And the sea is bone and dust.

Think.

Believe.

In a life

Where the ship

Never sails without you.

Listen!

I can hear them calling your name
for once.

__________________________

Thanks for reading.

 Cheers,

~Torres