Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)

A strange, rambling, jaunt through a few points in time and a few points in space



I used to be a member here- Gods! - more than 20 years ago. It seems that the work I submitted hasn't been retained. Unfortunately, the originals of what I had submitted here, and which were published in a couple of the collected anthologies during the 1990s when I imagined it would be fun to casually open a book where my name could be seen- and I could laugh in disbelief of my own shameless indulgence of folly. What made it even more satisfying was saying no when being repeatedly "invited" (enticed, begged, asked, cajoled, coerced) to pay very significant amounts of money for the privilege of being "honored" by the organization who made no bones about it's intention to make money both FROM me, and BECAUSE of me. However, I can't say that I am exactly happy that those pieces have disappeared, vanished, disintegrated, taken a dive, bowed out, blew away, or whatever term you may fancy in the moment to describe those unimportant, insignificant moments of earthshattering joy and release which may in fact prove to be moments that are in fact immeasurably important, significant, yet impossible to recall. I think I have a few other moments of my life that disappeared no matter how carefully I attempted to preserve them for a couple decades, at least. Alas, due to divorce, homelessness, and the happily relentless passage of time as I move through what we agree to call space, I've managed to lose literally everything I'd written before 2006 or 2007, and a lot that I've written since then, if truth be told. I'm willing to wager that every single thing in every single box that has predictably insisted on completely disappearing without a trace during a move, its ultimate fate never to be known by mere mortals, were bits of poetry, prose, random verbal vomit, and other assorted trinkets which my often sluggish and disappointingly unproductive mind manages to still spew at random, just like that one broken motion controlled water spigot in the restroom at Walmart. You know the one. I've seen you standing there trying to get it to work after watching me do the same damned thing.
I've had to move under circumstances which I do not want to recall, so I'm quite certain I can tolerate these types of losses better than - or at least as well as- most women of a certain age.
I'm at a point in time and space where the loss of several hours of effort, time, and unrealistic dreaming are okay- I'm okay in losing some words that I know had tasted indescribably good to me at the time that I managed to arrange in a way I found to be at least moderately pleasing. And I'm okay with the bald truth and maintain the complete conviction of a reformed cigarette smoker who tries to convert their former compatriots who have yet to be born again to a newfound state of nicotine free enlightenment that absolutely no one, aside from myself, has ever read those still-delicious, hopefully still tantalizing and interesting arrangements of words that appeared on a page in an overpriced piece of bait once used to lure those with more money than brains into giving even more of their money away in exchange for an "award of merit". At least those who did it could look someone in the eye while admitting they were bought and paid for, while buying and paying for the privilege. But honestly, I appreciated that book because it was a tangible thing with it's own unique combination of characteristics- genuine flaws, a sketchy history, and completely lacking any sense of humor whatsoever, let alone the awareness to recognize the irony should God Herself choose to make a cameo appearance on one of it's pages to formally announce Her intended and overlooked utility to humanity writ large. No, this book had enough assertive command of it's delusional confidence paired with it's own conviction in it's divine right to rule, just as if it were Cleopatra, Genghis Kahn or a decidedly rectangular representation of Frank Sinatra himself, with a blue eyed savagery clearly implied.
Trust me on this, folks- that old book flagrantly displayed it's inflated ego to such a degree that no one whose work appeared in it could possibly match the self importance and pompous pretentions which the book loudly and proudly displayed for all to take note of, as if it were one of it's own awards available for the price of the ticket to the ceremony being held in it's own honor. But no matter. I enjoyed that book every time I cussed or rolled my eyes at it's intentionally unaccommodating size which refused to fit properly on my bookcase shelves, it's oddly colored gilding, and I got a kick out of it's actually well camouflaged imperfections in the printing- especially that slightly enlarged font not overt enough to be glaringly obvious, but just enough so as to fill the correct amount of space to at least make an attempt at a believable justification of asking so much for what was a relatively small collection in a faux leather binding. However, that book still managed to acquire then present to an audience of unknown size some pretty good poetry, and even some I could objectively consider to be solid works- some having meaningful inspiration and others clearly the children of boredom, apathy or insipid examples of a mating between insincere and gratuitous verbal vomit. The good stuff was mixed with just enough garbage as to allow those gems to really shine through. What an inspired and novel approach- if it was indeed intentional. Still, I try to remain positive while criticizing something which deserves it, but only for that which it deserves to be criticized.
For all that a now 20-some year old poetry compilation was- and wasn't- that hard bound volume I had for several years before my untimely and involuntary evacuation from my former abode meant something to me. What has happened to that book? I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure that my ex husband didn't even dispose of it creatively let alone discover the creative bits I left inside of it. Instead, I'd wager he took great pleasure in either selling my book for fifty cents at a yard sale or burning it as an effigy of my former self.
That's okay, it only held a truly tiny fragment of who I was then, and literally none of who I am now, so what have I actually lost to time and space that was in the lost box, anyway?
Well, I'll tell you- that is, if someone is actually reading these utterly delicious words which I've arranged in a way which is mildly pleasing to myself- right now in this time and this space: The discovery that a few pieces I wrote and sent in on a lark to what I knew was a company engaging in a sketchy pay for play scheme have gotten lost after 20-some odd years didn't shock me. The discovery that a couple of old, average to maybe moderately nice assemblages of verbiage I had written more than two decades ago is about the same as if I had discovered they were inside the next mythical and mystical, but totally real disappearing boxes that I am certain contained real stuff at some point, and which are lost forever when moving from one point in time and one point in space to some other coordinates in another time and in another space. It just really ain't that damned tragic. It's not even really interesting enough to justify this exercise in what amounts to self indulgent, naked frivolity. But I digress.
Perhaps just letting my stuff all go and moving beyond what was once an overtly smarmy, but still generally harmless, occasionally enjoyable, sometimes therapeutic place at the time of it's new launch to be a bad thing. This digital space was once the realm of people who clearly desired acknowledgement of their work by someone else- or perhaps by everyone else. I hope it sees a better class of trash in the years to come, now that I'm bowing out. And as my official farewell, I will just say this: Good on you, if you find what you need in this place. That is what it is for, after all! You have a chance to make it what you need it to be, so don't let the smarmy bastards pushing promises of awards of merit which they expect you to pay for, so they can hand you something worth about the same as the paper it's literally just printed on- about a buck seventy three- maybe a bit more, due to current inflation.
That's what they wanted to fleece me for, back when I used to be a member here. But don't let it stop you! I didn't. after all. Who says anyone has to let someone else determine the worth of this place? Don't let the smarmy shills in the front office make something you enjoy less than you need it to be- nor should you expect them to make it something more than it ever can be. Okay, it's now nearly 2am. Advice given in the middle of the night is seldom trustworthy or profound, but I'm going to dish a little anyway. Go find a nice sized, sturdy box. Place inside it stuff you don't intend to ever lose, couldn't possibly misplace, and can't possibly live without. I guarantee that if you carefully store it away for the next twenty some years, you won't even remember that there ever was such a box, let alone remember what you actually put in it. And that's good, because it will have been lost long ago, mysteriously and without a trace, while in the midst of a move from one point in time and space to another point in time and space.
And all things being unequal, unfair, infuriating, fattening, hilarious, or deliciously subversive and patently dangerous, I refuse to fret over what is gone. I'm too busy collecting another batch of boxes for whenever I find myself moving yet again.. during which I am certain to lose a box of stuff I am sure I won't miss, but which I hope I will remember fondly, anyway.

About this poem

This small, unique example of insanity is a decidedly and unabashedly non-traditional, unstructured work, blending my real and unvarnished experience with this site as it was over 20 years ago, and an accounting- done in green ink, because I'm not a bookkeeper. I'd like to think of it as delusional dream theater on steroids and acid . I'd like to, but I'm not sure if I can. I'm still seeing little chubby cherubs dressed as Elvis and a Napoleon, taking turns riding on my crabby Maine coon's back. His name is Kevin. For real. This is when I should probably tell you that infamous line from a guide written by a hippie in a stupor about aliens and the end of the world. Don't Panic. Instead, you probably should be alarmed. This is what I sometimes refer to as my "creative side". *Shudder*. So, Fair Warning- I have been behaving like a kid throwing a few M-80s in the middle of a sad yet relentlessly long parade. Yes, that was me. Not Sorry. Now, my work here is done. 

Font size:
 

Written on August 16, 2021

Submitted by MoonliteSonata on August 16, 2021

8:55 min read
6 Views

Marcia J. La Vine

Look me up elsewhere. I've written enough tonight, and don't intend to stick around long enough for a bio to matter. more…

All Marcia J. La Vine poems | Marcia J. La Vine Books

(1 fan)

Discuss this Marcia J. La Vine poem with the community:

0 Comments

    Translation

    Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

    Select another language:

    • - Select -
    • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
    • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
    • Español (Spanish)
    • Esperanto (Esperanto)
    • 日本語 (Japanese)
    • Português (Portuguese)
    • Deutsch (German)
    • العربية (Arabic)
    • Français (French)
    • Русский (Russian)
    • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
    • 한국어 (Korean)
    • עברית (Hebrew)
    • Gaeilge (Irish)
    • Українська (Ukrainian)
    • اردو (Urdu)
    • Magyar (Hungarian)
    • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
    • Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Italiano (Italian)
    • தமிழ் (Tamil)
    • Türkçe (Turkish)
    • తెలుగు (Telugu)
    • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
    • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
    • Čeština (Czech)
    • Polski (Polish)
    • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Românește (Romanian)
    • Nederlands (Dutch)
    • Ελληνικά (Greek)
    • Latinum (Latin)
    • Svenska (Swedish)
    • Dansk (Danish)
    • Suomi (Finnish)
    • فارسی (Persian)
    • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
    • հայերեն (Armenian)
    • Norsk (Norwegian)
    • English (English)

    Citation

    Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:

    Style:MLAChicagoAPA

    "A strange, rambling, jaunt through a few points in time and a few points in space" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 29 Sep. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/107166/a-strange%2C-rambling%2C-jaunt-through-a-few-points-in-time-and-a-few-points-in-space>.

    Become a member!

    Join our community of poets and poetry lovers to share your work and offer feedback and encouragement to writers all over the world!

    September 2022

    Poetry Contest

    Enter our monthly contest for the chance to win cash prizes and gain recognition for your talent.
    1
    days
    16
    hours
    38
    minutes

    Browse Poetry.com

    Quiz

    Are you a poetry master?

    »
    Who wrote the poem "A Dream Within A Dream"?
    • A. Percy Bysshe Shelley
    • B. Edgar Allan Poe
    • C. Elizabeth Barrett Browning
    • D. William Blake