Self-expression

The worst thing about writer's block is obvious.

The best thing about writer's block is reviewing old writing. I found a stream-of-consciousness piece I wrote last autumn that really lends itself, after some mild revision, to becoming a slam piece.

A word about me and slam poetry:

I am not a slam poet. I once wrote a poem about how I was not a slam poet so I could perform it at a slam. Except I chickened out. I suppose I've known a few too many slammers to allow myself to get too close to the form lest I, too, be mistaken for a self-important soapbox artist. I also dislike how homogenized the performances are and I loathe the notion of rating a poem -- a work of art -- in a competition where there are winners and losers. I generally call myself a spoken word poet, if I have to classify myself, but I have not been doing the whole performance thing for many moons now. Telluride lacks the kind of venues for poetry I grew accustomed to in Phoenix. Which is sad, no?

However, every time I do perform, people ask me if I slam. Pretty funny.

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After thoroughly assessing my clothing situation, I have decided that I obviously need someone to help me dress myself. I do not adhere to trends. I do not particularly like the experience of trying on clothes. And, generally speaking, I hate malls. Having cash to blow on clothes is rare, too, so there aren't that many opportunities for me to improve my outward expression of myself.

It comes as no surprise, then, that I feel like I'm wearing somebody else's clothes and I feel ill-at-ease in them most of the time. I was just starting to develop a wardrobe I could live with when I was Taurus-ized by a manipulative woman I had mistaken as a friend who offered to wash my clothes for me when I was homeless. I never got my clothes back. What I was left with was an odd hodge-podge of old clothes that are steadily wearing out.

Where's a fashion consultant when you need one? Probably hanging out with some pretentious poet.