On Distance (and the process of going it) - A Review

I’m no prodigy.

My parents will tell you that my intellect is based on dumb luck and dumb amounts of love. The kind that’s founded deeply in a non-condescending unconditional kind of situation.

The kind that gets a kid hooked on phonics and advanced bedtime stories. The kind that makes a kid read Alighieri and Proust too early. The kind that puts me in the fast track.

An excitable kind of love. A kind of love that turned me into an excitable kind of kid. But after all that time practicing in the speedway, we found out we were all too jazzed to check my shoelaces.

And so I stumbled when I was in those trenches and alone.

But, I still had my dad’s know-how and my mom’s empathy. My brother’s head start and a library of giant’s posed on my shoulders.

So I knew that I had to throw back the grenades that were lobbed at me from between TJ’s eyes and through no-man’s-land. I could grieve and commiserate with separated troops and the early wounded. I could take aim like a 90’s Gateway PC.

I was not born for that. I didn’t know how to use the skills I fell into. I just knew how to fall gracefully.

When posed the question: “who do you think you write like?” My mind flags back to compliments from the past 6 years. I’ve been peppered with vague comparisons that align some more formed work with Twain’s wit, Vonnegut's humored drought, Hedberg’s punches, or Angelou’s tempo. But living in those author’s styles feels like a cramped joyride.

I needle through critique after critique and see the endless criticism of my waterfall of conceits, my lackadaisical approach to style and structure and the like, and my tireless work to retire any accepted attempts to discourage railing against society’s perception of flawlessly comprehendable legal language and dumb ideas about what prose should be and what you ought to spare and save and work against letting slip into your writing.

I like to twist tongues and hurt heads and remold my mind. I like to see words dance on a page, but I want to see mine just stay still. And be there for a while. For whoever.

I sometimes live how I write. Knowing the rules and despite that still breaking them. Something something spirit of the law, rather than following the ideas as written.

My body never has obeyed. And by extension, neither have my hands. The words they make are theirs. Deftly shooting at noon from the hip. Firing with the deadly accuracy of a dentist turned doctor.

I stole part of that. Co-opted the rest from references to things that I don’t mind flying overhead. Because the words here aren’t Mark’s or Kurt’s or Maya’s or Mitch’s. They’re not Whitman’s, they’re not yours, or mine, or anyone’s. They’re what comes and what goes. And what chooses to stay.

So when I'm prone and forced to contemplate a pale green blade of grass peaking up through the racetrack’s sidewalk cracks. I don’t question dead pocket watches and red hunting caps.

I think about the tenacity of a world that refuses to sit by while pressure builds. I see the thing for what it is. Not something it could be. Because, and I know this to be entirely true, it’s good enough as it is.

It wasn’t made for this, but it’s damn well gonna try.

Thanks for reading. Have a great week.