Anatomy Of My Fickle Frenzies: The Socially Inflicted Burden Of Feeling Incapacitated. Brandon mackenzie

I say, ten minutes prior to class.
I don't feel like anything today. Such was the case yesterday. And every day prior. As far as I can see, I think it will be like this tomorrow as well.

The Objective

Poetry is a centuries-old discourse on what it means for things to be the way they seem. Poetry, too, contingent upon the level of thought and feeling the audience gives it, may provide the reader(s) with some new perspective(s), big or not, of this tiny planet in which we inhabit within this vast cosmic arena. For myself, one such revelation, among a myriad of revelations, was that poetry had come to compel me to commit self-review, and often the answers were unpleasant. In an attempt to mitigate the overwhelming questions of the existence of all things, I made poems to continue the discourse on the aforementioned questions. I have penned three poems in an attempt to comment on two poems that seemed to bear some powerful resonance to my own state of gooey existence.


Essay: Introduction

"...because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air" - Sylvia Plath, "The Bell Jar"

Part One

I feel I must call upon Babstock, the ambivalent muse whose poem is being recited before me in class, to make sense of the ideas I am flirting with.

have you heard the tolls? and what did you do about it?
How does the gap make you feel? Should you proceed to a new investigation? Have you extracted what you need?

Revelations in the dissolve.

"and the advanced gateway to new customs / collapses around a subtle merchant's pocket"

I don't think I have. Perhaps some comparison between my poem and his will give me some sense of interplay between his themes and my own.

From Babstock to me.

Part Two

Class is progressing, and "Jellyfish" by Sue Sinclair is now being read. I enjoy it. I feel sad, but I enjoy it. I don't quite know why it resonates with me, so perhaps I should write something to give form to these feelings. What does "Jellyfish" remind me of? Youth, and the erosion of romantic idealism of that epoch that now feels so far away now. I'm intoxicated with these ideas of youth and what it means to me now. Time, too, plays its part in this melancholic drippy trip. Whither do these romantic states go once we "age" and become part of this complex environment that becomes so dangerously combustible? A poem begins to form in my mind.

we touched jellyfish

Flabby cosmic globes. Our hilariously sentimental existence. It feels right to think of us all in this way. It's mesmerizing, but, in a way, something feels uncomfortable about it. I think both my poem and Sue's poem tackle this central issue and the ambivalence underneath this beauty:

From jellyfish of intrigue to jellyfish of capsulated youth
the chalky streak
"an incoming hierarchy peers over the triumph" (1)

Part Three

Class is coming to a close. We are still discussing some notions of the dichotomy of surface and hidden aspects of humans. I am reminded immediately of my own battle with these fluxing visages people display. It can sound like a dramatic appeal to my own experiences, but I am not excluding myself from blame. I cannot address the ways in which they may lie or not to me without trying to unearth my own miscalculations of character (my own or their's) or misjudgements of their interests. It all comes down to "The Catcher in the Rye," my boon my bane - epoch of my trembling relational roots.

i want to burn the rye

Thus (for class is ending)

"Ask her if she still keeps her kings in the back row." - J. D. Salinger, "The Catcher in the Rye"

The static of ambivalence still lingers, and these fickle frenzies of mine will go on. To what extent I should accept that is perhaps a fault. When I look to my poems, I know that they're justified insofar as the historicity of my "identity" has moulded me to feel unsure of the ways of people and of myself. The dislocation from my parents (the wolves and the snails), the burden of absent connections and the ambivalence of knowing how they may never feel as sorry about the disconnection as I do (thank you, Holden, thanks to my misreading?), and the inevitable gaps of time between innocence and experience and all the flux in between. The question still remains, as I address in a bell tolls a hearing year, what, if you and me can observe these issues of ambivalence and the apparent causes of, why can't we, and certainly myself included, feel the confidence to address it? Ambivalence is inevitable, as Babstock illustrates, but, as Sinclair shows, there can be a beauty in and of itself, for the mysterious nature of existence is a marvel. I take this further by showing that ambivalence can be stunning, but when it stems from the social constructs around us, perhaps the harborer ambivalence is not necessarily the one who should feel inept, but rather the constructs that envelop one are the things that contort, little by little, year after year, until it is too late but to romanticize our that which has gone into making us.

fickle frenzies and the fuzzy integrations


Created with images by Wicker Paradise - "Gari_Hatch_Folio2045" • Rob de Vries, - "Broken truck" • Picudio - "seats blue stadium" • renaissance_nerd_1 - "Pieter Bruegel -- The Fall of the Rebel Angels" • Rob de Vries, - "Black hole" • jurvetson - "Black Hole Sun" • NASA Goddard Photo and Video - "Hubble Helps Find Smallest Known Galaxy Containing a Supermassive Black Hole" • pedrosimoes7 - "Deaf Music (1914-1915) - Amadeo de Souza-Cardoso (1897 - 1918)" • Pexels - "animals deep ocean deep sea" • Unsplash - "life beauty scene" • 50 Watts - "M. S. Corley, Catcher in the Rye (entry for the 50 Watts' Polish Book Cover Contest)" • jetheriot - "static on a mexican television station 2"

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