I think I have fallen out of practice;
I’m just not sure what I’ve fallen out of practice at.
It might have something to do with having expectations—
whether high or low is of little importance—or happy endings
for the audience’s sake.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Will I ever be able to live
up to my autobiography?
The last time I tried, it ended
in a rather embarrassing entanglement
that continues to suck my soul
and wallet dry. But that’s to be expected.
At some point, we all have to deal
with a few surprisingly large numbers,
whether it’s a jackpot, a brief’s tab,
or a boneyard plot digit.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
If I so desperately yearn for human connection, where does that constant trepidation come from every time I have to meet an actual living human being? Why do people seem to be so much more captivating in their refined, textual form? Is it because books don’t exhibit annoying habits or have foul breath, or is it all down to my own shortcomings that I try to hide?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Tell me, are you a real writer? I mean, does anybody buy what you write or publish it or anything?
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Blake Edwards, 1961)
I guess I’m not a real writer
since no one buys my tortuous words
and I haven’t published anything—
at least not in English—
unless you count the bottomless pit
of the world wide web. But let’s start small
and get yourself that box first.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
After swallowing, with a light breakfast, a daily dose of pity
pills and ridicule syrup, you spend the whole morning trying to find comfort
in vague declarations fastened with unfamiliar words and sturdy punctuation
that presented a sordid little drama as a fare of martyrdom,
only to realise that once you confessed to hearing, in response, ‘I beg your pardon?’
and still kept your calm, as if your gravely misspelt urges had never been revealed,
there was nothing left but to ask: Do I avoid people because I’m afraid of falling for one
and that that would be one-sided and rather silly, all things considered,
or because irrelephantiasis might prove to be contagious?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
As a lowland creature of wrinkles and grey hair,
who reads the—handily predigested—Übermensch preacher
while doing daily workouts on the exercise bike
in the comfort of my spacious living room
rather than jotting down thoughts while hiking the Fex Valley,
I wonder if I have earned the right to complain.
After all, I never asked for this ordeal,
although compared to many, you might say
my life is little more than a hassle. The thing is,
even a drop of water can be unbearable—
ask de Marsiliis.
Should you pity yourself as your confidence withers
and the bookshelves seem intimidating, there is no consolation
other than the words of an old grammarian
about the different inclinations of the human mind.
After all, you are but a victim of the economy
of language.
Sometimes you have to have faith in yourself,
even when the mirror screams ‘old and ugly’
and your desire for sex—meaningless or otherwise—
no longer goes beyond the topic of an article in a rag
casually opened while waiting at the hairdresser’s,
or so they say, and there may be some truth to it—
atheists decorate Christmas trees too, after all—
but it’s hard to shake the hand that just castrated you.
I have nothing to say, and yet I keep talking,
meticulously combining nouns, personal pronouns, and verbs,
adding an occasional adjective here and there, so as to hide
in the multitude of dependent clauses—each introduced with the most unique
subordinating conjunction I can think of—my utter inability to form and express
an original thought of my own (it’s a bit like in the kitchen
when you dream of your own signature dish,
or at least a decent phoritto or some other fusion food,
and you end up reheating a ready-made meal, glad
you didn’t burn it).
hidden pilcrow 