- I wake up at dawn. At three or four in the morning. I put on a pair of red socks (for good luck) and a knitted wool cap..
- I draw my tarot cards, and divine the day’s events–for fun.
- And then I write poetry. And when I’m not writing rhymes and verses (that make very little money…haha artist), I write plays or screenplays. The length of my scripts vary, but they’re usually short, one-act affairs that are impossibly difficult to stage.
- I write everything down in paper FIRST, in longhand, on a cheap, upcycled notebook. And then I transcribe the text on my computer, which is a testy task given how awful my handwriting is.
- I write for four/six hours a day everyday and I usually end at around 8 in the morning, tired and frustrated but somehow pleased at the day’s output.
Is writing fun? No it’s torture. Jk. It’s alright when your muse is in a cooperative mood I guess. I trawl the city and take photographs the rest of the day and I read whenever I can (a requirement if you want to write). And that’s my life basically.
The writer is alone
in his cabin in the woods
in the kitchen:
there are grapefruits in the basin
bread on the basket
milk in the icebox
a pen on the table
paper on the floor
and a gun in the drawer.
–Words and photography by Teegee Villanueva
I am compiling poems for a book I plan to self-publish on April. A collection of only my best bits, noxious, toxic verses drawn from the mind of a chronic depressive. Wow, how compelling.
Saint Jude, the title, will not be a pleasant experience. It will be honest, raw, threadbare (on purpose, in the absence of a grant or a generous patron) and it will come in black and laden with expletives.
I am having difficulty selecting compositions however. I revisited several of my earlier work and found them all lacking in some capacity–forced exercises in craft the lot of them, I doubt if any of them effectively conveyed an emotion or an episode at all. I wrote poems with no subjects, no discernible personae, verses that were disconnected, that were disjointed, poems that generally made no sense. And they were all about love, what is this love, this foolish thing!
So I am resigned to write an entirely new collection; baked fresh, chapters upon chapters of verses with subjects drawn rom memory, from events in the past and the present, from circumstances new and old, from quarrels resolved and questions left unanswered, and I will not be censored, or held back by norms. I will write what I think and express what I feel. Poetry, the art of letters is not something I take lightly.
Photography by Teegee Villanueva
I like to write poetry. I enjoy the process immensely. Waking up to a good day, heady, and full of ideas. It takes a while to put pen to paper, to paint images with words, like a master portraitist. But I get there eventually with a little rhyme and rhythm; pulsating beats, a pack of rabid metronomes I can only hear but I cannot see.
My photographs complement my poetry. I know when I started I was more than a little straightforward…I presented images as is, real and unfiltered…but lately I let myself loose, I let myself experiment with colors and subtle variations on subjects previously explored. For one, I let the laws of poetry take precedence over photographic technique. This is why my present work lends itself a certain je ne sais quoi, slowly morphing into abstraction, into the realm of pure expression.
Honestly, my poems are dark, on edge; my personae are troubled individuals meting out their grievances in rhyme, or in some distant language only they can understand. Poetry is an exercise in patience, futility even, or poetry can mean absolutely nothing (depending on context)…poetry should be felt, the words should be sung in the privacy of one’s mind, played out, like an instrument of music.
I write from a place far away, many try to uncover the symbols and the meanings embedded deep within my compositions, some dismiss them as banal, some are quick to dismiss my works as reflections of my troubled mental state. But I pay these people no mind, I never do.
Poetry isn’t that simple.
Artwork by Dyck Cediño
My books are my life. I carry them around with me wherever I go; wherever I am they accompany me, bother me, pick away at me like children.
Continue reading “A Beautiful Ending”