Tag Archives: The Lost Generation

Ernest Says…

“Go on then… one true sentence… it’s not going to write itself!”

He then goes on to chortle at me from the corner,
Muttering something barely audible or understandable,
Likely to do with the emotional suicide I’ve been committing,
Daily for months,
One letter followed by another,
Only to be erased,
Something I promised myself I would never do,
As I seemingly was sinking deeper into the dark melancholy,
My black dog,
The bitch was back,
Along with the horrors that delight her,
And then when coming close to that shotgun,
Again,
I was reminded,
As before,
Why I am here,
What my purpose and mission are,
BEYOND these words…

As I write these words,
Over my shoulder,
My constant companion is now laughing;
“On you go my boy…”

Satisfied I presume by the fact,
That I’ve given in to his endless demand for a drink,
While these words from the Ether,
In my trance like state,
Flowing wilder than the Colorado,
Freer than the Amazon,
And mightier than the Nile,
Ethereal vibrations from elsewhere,
Whence I don’t know,
Coming to this poetic savant,
To forever transform the lives of those,
Who gave me back my own,
To eternally transform the lives of those who give,
So I can give,
My purpose and my meaning,
Without reward or adulation,
Rather the quiet hidden knowledge,
That when no one else cared I did,
Thus,
Did you.

“More, my boy, more…” Ernest snorts.

“Scotch or words?”

“Both you fool, both!” He laughs (as usual)

Though the rest aren’t laughing,
Picasso reminds me how he used to pay his bills,
Before he could pay his bills,
Joyce reminds me that I have the fire of the Emerald Isle inside me,
Pound states;
“How far are you willing to go for your convictions? For them? For yourself?”
“Jail? Death? LIVING?”

Zelda now jealous that love now sits beside me,
Knowing she can not taunt me as she did F.Scott,
Does, (he reminds me),
F. Scott, as he has told me before, reminiscences,
“You are neither East or West Egg, you are GOOD PEOPLE.”

I nod my head in humble thanks.

Toklas and Stein,
Grandmotherly and matronly in their demeanor,
Are sitting in front of me,
Lost in the picturesque view over my shoulder,
Of a coconut palm,
And the approaching clouds,
Wondering what I might do next,
For those who have done so much for me.

“Write, write, write, write, write,” Stein says,
And I obey,
For these words were bought and paid for,
Through a donation,
To people whose lives were changed once,
And are now,
Through these words being changed forever once more.

“GOOD PEOPLE” Fitz is now yelling,
“GOOD PEOPLE” my generation, lost resounds,
Hooting and hollering,
Glasses raised,
And toasts beheld.

Save for Ernest;
“You’re finding it my boy. One true sentence. Keep going!”

And so I do,
Finding myself,
Pushing myself,
To do what I can,
Every day,
With love in my heart,
Gratefulness in my soul,
And graciousness in my spirit…

Ernest says a lot to me,
Feeding my melancholy,
As a doctor a laser to a tumor,
My days with Ernest, he reminds me predates,
Midnight in Paris,
Hemingway and Me started long ago…

Ernest says that Churchill was right;
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

So I do,
Ernest and I,
Hemingway and me,
Touching the lives of so many,
Just as the lost generation continue to touch mine,
I will persist,
Hoping to touch yours,
Knowing those who these words have nourished,
Figuratively and literally,
And I am touched.

Ernest says;

“That’s my boy, onward and upwords.”
He also says;
“It’s not a typo and you should think.”

SDM

(This piece is dedicated to another donor who would like to remain anonymous for a campaign I am running to help twelve families affected by a flash flood of their homes… https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/help-poverty-stricken-lao-flood-victims/x/8130248#home… I can also take interac and paypal payments directly. Contact me for details)

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The Importance of Muse (6)

In the infinite chaos of perpetually recycled stardust,

The remnants of the big bang reveal to me secrets,

Long misunderstood,

There is an order created by the Ether,

Readily apparent to those who have vision,

Versus those who merely see,

Those who listen,

Versus those who merely hear,

For out in that dark void there exists a vibrancy,

Resonating inside the souls of poets since time immemorial,

A resplendent beauty that unlocks a passion necessary,

To adulate the treasured honour of Muse’s presence,

Your presence,

I adore you,

I love you,

Figurative and literal,

In ways you will never, could never understand,

Despite these hopeless attempts to be

Conduit for the invisible,

Muse,

Not just the royal you, so often presented,

But the perfectly imperfect package,

That stands before me at the ready,

Laying bare your soul,

That I too may do the same,

As these words require

And my literary masters demand.

As said before,

Here, time and again,

The importance of Muse can not be inconspicuous,

For she is an overstatement of all that I deign necessary,

To prevent my emotional suicide,

Loosing my gift in a series of meager attempts,

To force what is not there,

In her absence,
Your absence,
I am nothing but a fool with words,

Though when she comes,

Touching me deep with in,

Those words spill out from me,

Seductive and instructive,

More readily than I can breathe,

Effortless as her inspiration unlocks the key,

That liberates my creative flow,

Endless,

Ebb and rip,

The gravity of her presence,

The tides lead me away from my inner storm,

Toward an awaiting Nirvana,

Whereby the touch of her lips,

Is the ambrosia from which I drink,

Understanding completely the full nature of love,

One only understood by those caught in the rapture,

And endless delight,

Of that perfect phrase,

Capturing a spirit that only you can see,

Only I,

Can see,

Muse!

It so often seems,

That between those moments,

Where splendor presents itself in veiled opportunities,

That the broken shards of me,

Cut deep,

Sending me further into an abyss,

A loving idiot savant,

Where my Black Dog howls,

As I plead with the Ether,

And my Ladies of the night,

Serendipity, Destiny and Fate,

To once more grace me,

Instruct and guide me,

To that necessary ingredient,

Muse,

Which fuels these tomes,

Endless,

An expected necessity,

Cherishing what I see,

What I know,

What I am,

Words,

Wordsmith of Muse.

 

Your importance,

Is akin to a mother’s milk,

To a new born child,

A pirouette to a ballerina,

A canvas to Picasso,

And a great green light for Gatsby,

And yet tragically,

My providence,

As guided by that frenzied Ether I so adore and praise,

Finds me Daisy,

Rather than as a star cross’d lover,

And yet I persist,

I rise,

I look to the heavens,

Praising even the momentary glimpse,

Of true beauty,

Inside your soul,

Muse,

That either none have, could or can see,

But I,

Guided by nature’s call to enthused benevolence,

To touch another as they touch me,

As you touch me,

So yes, Muse,

Your importance is greater than you may ever know.
Constantly,

I find myself in a state of flux,

A perilous and hazardous precinct,

Where my greatest wish,

Becomes my greatest downfall,

Always has been,

Since as early as the Ether first blessed me,

With these heart-rending efforts,

Dancing to the elegance of these ethereal gifts,

Presented by the Ether,

In a form that could only be you,

Muse,

For even those few moments,

Where I get to bask in the sentiments,

Those I crave more than anything else,

Even if for a panicked instant,

As I contemplate the predictable disappearance,

As happens each and every time,

Just as quickly as you arrived,

The infinitely obvious precision of my life,

Abandoned,

Left with these words as evidence,

Of a true gem,

Gems,

The very real importance of Muse,

If I am to survive,

Non Omnis Moriar.

 

Muse,

You are at once my everything,

And nothing,

For I can only seize,

What the Ether permits,

And it is a fickle master,

Guiding these fingers,

As they flicker with the genius, you inspire,

To some the foundation of a delusion of grandeur,

Those that could never understand,

For at least a while,

Never quite long enough,

Making the best of it,

As I bask in the prismatic resplendence of your soul,

The radiance of your smile,

The intense secrets behind those dancing eyes,

And the subtle way that even the simple act of walking,

Can alight in me an abstract prospect,

Captured in an instant, herein,

For you,

For posterity,

For you are Muse,

And without you,

I am lost in Dante’s circles of Hell,

As Virgil laughs,

And The Lost Generation once more consoles me.

 

With an intense vanity,

I fumble like a school child,

Scribbling outside the lines,

Hoping that you might see,

That Pandora’s curiosity,

Resulted in the very box that needs to be open,

If I am to thrive,

If I am to know genuine bliss,

For that is truly what you force me to aspire,

Climbing higher and higher,

Inside a drug induced fury,

Of pheromones clashing,

Serotonin dashing,

Dopamine slashing and adrenaline rushing,

And yet,

Like Hemingway’s haunting presence in my life,

That one true sentence,

That might finally get you,

Royal or otherwise,

Muse,

To see,

To feel,

To believe,

To hold fast,

Might understand,

What even I myself can not,

Me,

If I am to thrive,

It is only Muse,

Because of you,

All I imagine,

All you are.

The importance of Muse,

Of you,

Royal and otherwise,

Creates all I am,

All I will ever be,

The dutiful secretary,

Of the Ether’s grace,

Giving me moments of significance,

That are entirely dependent,

On you,

Muse!

SDM

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Lost Generation (2)


I no longer wish to cradle you in my arms,
For the body electric is gone,
Reminisces of once held soul mate,
That now seeks life on her own,
Knowing that you had to do what you did,
Without knowing why,
Is precisely why I am moving on,
Why I no longer wish the body electric,
With you,
Abandoned at the moment I most needed you,
When you most needed me,
With reckless disregard,
Self loathing and fear,
I now stand as champion of my own soul,
My own advance,
Creating a new body electric,
Fueled by Tesla, Hemingway and more,
Those voices,
They continue to speak to me,
Smack me, jar and jam me,
In ways you never did,
In ways you never could,
They grow louder each day as I grow ever closer,
To the realization of a new love,
A self love,
So that I may again learn to love another,
The one I now believe I see,
My first love and hopefully my last love,
A paradigm shifted,
By all misunderstood,
These words that I caress just as deftly as I had you,
These words that I twist and turn into beautiful elements,
Of a life worth living,
For in now accepting what and who I am,
And what I did and why I had to support you,
I am free to enhance the calling,
I will answer the clarion call of the giants in my mind,
In the pursuit of happiness and love,
In pursuit of Muse,
She, herself,  calls out for me to listen to the Lost Generation,
Though she misunderstands them and perhaps even me,
Transplant myself back to the age I should have been born,
And that I now live daily in my mind,
Paris, 1923
Over in the corner,
Picasso is holding court with a bevy of ladies,
As always,
A few men try to enter the fray and are shunned away,
As always,
By twirling fingers of fantastic delight,
As always…

Gertrude approaches me first,
Entreating me to sit with her for a glass of red wine;
“As you well know Sir, one of the pleasant things those of us who write or paint do is to have the daily miracle. It does come.”
The words fall from her mouth,
As an entrenched philosophy,
An esoteric Ether that empowers me,
But appear like Victoria or Angel falls,
Monumental in that Stein is always right,
Well,
More often than not.
She continues;
“An audience is always warming but it must never be necessary to your work.”
I ask;
“Do you feel I need an audience?”
“Not at all,” she assures me,
“Just remember, that your words are you, you are your words,
and nobody, anywhere, can change that.”
I deeply inhale my Cuban cigar and find myself looking for the familiar,
Calling out for a scotch,
With that, I hear F. Scott off in a corner;
“Have you proven yet that Gatsby is not the greatest character?”
As I approach I can hear him laughing;
“Surely you are a greater character than Jay?”
“Frankly,” I reply,
“I am not from any Egg, east nor west, but I am certain that Jay is still the greatest…”

F. Scott scoffs at me as a mother a child,
Scolding me for something I have done something in err,
As far as I remember is human, no?

“What is wrong with you boy, it’s up to you, write.”
Pensively I stare into the void between F. Scott and my face,
“You don’t believe it is that easy?”
“Well we’ll never know until you write it will we?”
I nod my head partially frightened but truly elated,
“The world only exists in your eyes.
You can make it as big or as small as you want.”
He says kindly,
“Create the world you want to create and make it BIG…”
F. Scott clearly enjoying his treatise goes on;
“An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation,
the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.”
I fire back without hesitation;
“But I am not in my youth anymore…”
He angrily interrupts;
“Son, you are a writer, you are in your youth evermore.”

Apparently Zelda had had quite enough and as many times before,
As always before,
Takes me by the hand and leads me to an empty space,
Invisible pheromones clashing,
As Muse reenters my mind,
No music is playing except for the soft rush of wind,
Against the storied cobblestones of Paris’ Left Bank;
“He is right you,” she says,
“About?” I inquire.
“His advice to you, is right on.
You are youthful, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Zelda” I say, “Are you hitting on me?”
She replies; “No, well maybe,
yet, have you looked in the mirror?
I have seen twenty year olds that don’t have the baby face you do
and what’s more Jay may, or may not be, the greatest character,
but you have it in you to write that character and the time is now.
What are you waiting for?”

Together we swayed back and forth,
Not as lovers dancing more like a father with his daughter bride,
And Zelda started to hum,
Knowing something was coming I steadied my nerves,
For when she hums,
Zelda hums,
As the Ether beckons,
“Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise,
erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions,
fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions
and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes. ”
She twirls me gently;
“No sour grapes Sender, live, live, live.”
As I reach the pinnacle of the twirl she releases me…

So I drift over to T.S. who sits pensively;
“You come to us, daily,
or rather it is we who come to you,
we know you are searching,
you know you are searching but I wonder…
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out
how far one can go.
How far are you willing to go my boy?”

The voices in my head determined today to make me think,
As always,
Forcing me into intellectual corners that I’d rather not be in,
Boxed,
“As far as is necessary,” I assure him, “further if possible.”
“You look stunned young man…
the best advice I can ever give you consists in this…
If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.
Be poignant. Be selective. Be you and write.”

The sun had long since set,
Paris revealing that majestic splendor of its thousands year old history,
With deafening shadows and perfumed stains of life,
This was the Paris we all loved,
The Paris we lived for,
The Paris that always exists in our minds,
As we all stood there in a faith shaking silence,
Our talent, ability and joie de vive,
We knew it could not last,
But we would fight,
To the death,
Refusing to grow up,
While trying not to get old,
Though our words may live forever,
We know,
We shall not.

NON OMNIS MORIAR…

With a telling glance and a tip of my cap I walk away,
Over to my literary father,
Hemingway with a slap on my back and a firm grip of my hand,
Looked on with child like wonder,
At the sight of Paris on this most perfect Summer dusk,
“Sender, you realize we won’t always be here?”
I laughed,
As I wondered how a figment of my overworked mind could express,
That he knew better than I,
As always,
How long they would or would not be there;
As always,
“I assure you Ernest, you will always be with me…”
“Not as now…and that is why you must know…
We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
I was a failure and so too will you be,
if you can’t finally unleash the  fuming literary beast inside you.”

He continued;
“Every man’s life ends the same way.
It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another. How are you going to live your life?
How are you going to distinguish yourself?”
He repeated this line over and over,
As always
For what seemed like hours,
And Paris slowly transformed into Laos,
And I am brought back to this place and time,
So that I can finally distinguish,
Myself.

The voices,
These voices,
Those sing the praises of a life worth living,
Are my daily reminder,
My daily escape,
And my daily reminder,
That we are all put on this earth to do something,
Not just anything,
Something,
Whether to paint, write, sing, dance, whatever it may be,
And should we refuse to answer that calling,
Our lives,
Will be less than they should be,
Love, Family and the words,
The voices of the Lost Generation,
Are my clarion calls to a brilliant masterpiece,
And I don’t know what I would do without them,
Save,
That I am sure I would go mad.

SDM

Lost Generation (1)

https://senderupwords.wordpress.com/2013/10/09/lost-generation-found-love/

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NaNoWriMo 2011

November is the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and I have been going back and forth deciding whether or not I will “win” again this year. This month of ‘literary abandon’ gives people from all over the world the motivation write that novel they’ve always been speaking about. Paper to pen, feet to the road and nose to the grindstone. 30 days. 30 nights. 50,000 words and you too will ‘win.’

Having been in editing purgatory for the past six months my urge to create is SO massive that again I find myself saying WHY NOT? I have decided that I will participate and write my 3rd NaNoWriMo novel.

It is to be a semi autobiographical look at my experiences from the age of twelve – thirteen until today. Together we will journey with The Lost Generation and the other voices in my head through issues related to mental health, self medication and well being as well as the search for genuine self.

Maybe you have a novel in your head? Maybe you want to write. The more the merrier. Check it out at http://www.nanowrimo.org

BE INSPIRED TODAY!

Peace, Respect, Love and Light,

Sender

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