by: Genevieve Palmieri
I have oft found myself among the ranks of the mad pencil scrawlers. Words strewn every which way, reading like blue prints— city planning for the blank page. Madness takes hold, a fury of ideas- fragments, pictures, and phrases. Book upon book filled—bindings broken from folding back the cover one too many times. A rubber band holding in bar napkins, place mats, receipts, spiral notebook paper, all covered and folded to fit in between the ear marked and already weighted pages within. It’s been the books and me for as long as I can remember—-until now.
See, I’ve been trapped by the confines of the real world and its requirements— The dichotomy; a bohemian soul plagued by a misguided sense of responsibility. Tow the line and torture your self. Be a sadist for a paycheck and always be hungry. At first, you go with the current—-the focus on survival alone. Keep your head above water. Don’t get pulled under. Don’t get fired. And you adjust. It’s not so fast. Once in time with the flow, you forgot why you got in it in the first place. There’s not an easy escape. No reeds to grab onto, no still water…just the flow. It’s not so fulfilling a pace. You get hungry, real fucking hungry. Can’t sit still, not satisfied with a single thing; like trying to sleep and not finding the sweet spot…ever.
Suffocation. You need something to knock you off your axis. Something like divine intervention and black magic combined.
And then it happens. A friend comes along, pulls you aside and whispers this thing. Eyes widen, pulse races. The promise of something new… An outlet. A release. It’s a siren, seducing me back to my rightful path. A new renaissance is upon us. A movement propelled into action by a hunger; a brotherhood craving a new outlook, a further insight, a break from the mundane, a fist to the status quo. The round table is revived and I’m pulling up a chair. Here I am, Dorothy Parker reincarnate in the midst of bourbon-scented, wild-eyed men ready to wax poetic, philosophic, romantic and crack wise.
Gentlemen, thank you for having me. I know it won’t take long for the snark and single-malt to start flowing.
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