REFLECTIONS

I knew writing was a silent act. It was done in solitude, taken seriously, done intensely. I knew that words were deployed gravely with grand gestures. Then—the emergence of Writer— was punctuated by poems because they felt necessary. I wrote only of love and heartbreak, though I was so young. Youthful naivete.

It wasn’t until I felt a deep soaking of rain and green eyes (poems) that I knew the page was where I belonged. Soak is an amalgamation of poems and prose, of overwash and eruption, my first real attempt at something beautiful and developed. Openings is a collection of poems about the aches, redness, pressures of being a lover and son, triumphs, loneliness. An endeavor rife with vulnerability. I have crafted a theory of writing about writing through open wounds to gain consciousness. I have delved into how ghosts cannot write poetry. I had no knowledge before learning from those who also write. And through it all, every word is still lathered with doubt; but what writer doesn’t have doubt about the way their hands have carved into blank pages?

In all of my poems and stories, I have garnered a deeper understanding of myself. I look in the mirror and see a cartographer’s map. I see my mother’s son. I see my father’s inheritance. I see my partner’s kisses, my queerness burgeoned, my anger bubbling red, my desire to garden beautiful things. I see myself, new and glimmering, old and crumbling. I feel like I’ve spent decades working, excavating, sculpting, even though I’ve only been writing for the last few years.

I must feel and think in metaphor. I risk towards some precipice in which buffaloes fall. I feel merely a witness, on the edge of the words. A herd gallops towards me, loose sand flitting violently at all sides. The sun beats down on me like a poem. And yet, becoming the Writer was like slipping on a silky shirt. It was smooth, daring to be seen, comfortable as a second skin because the poems are a second skin, just glistening.

Soak, Openings, all of the theoretical and critical writings have all developed a voice in some throat —mine— and I am to continue the evolution of corporeal cacophony. Through the wounds, I am. Through the tides of rain, I am. Through the cobwebs of thoughts, I am. I can’t say I’d do anything differently; for me, the words came as they had to and I had to relinquish control to the Writer. I will return to the pieces like an old lover, sit with them over a cup of coffee, adore the memories of our togetherness, and look forward to new provocations and experiences with them. They are extensions of myself, and I risk losing us if I don’t ever return. Now, as the Writer (who I will always have with me, in me), I can pass on what I know, continue to learn through the words, live better.

Openings is a collection meant to engage with the wounds of the reader; through my own bloody spots, a hand is reached out to form connections and resonance. A flux of myself on the page. I am a writer, the Writer, because it took months to create and curate, long nights spent scalping at lines until they made sense, hours of scared doubt creeping in. And then assurance from those who matter— mentors, friends, even myself.

Soak is a story morphed into new variations. An upcoming theater production has adapted the words, added projections, visual imagery, bodies for the embodiment of characters. I am a writer, the Writer, because I’ve loosened my grip on the work, allowed it to flourish outside of myself. The buffaloes fall off the precipice and land somewhere new; I gaze from above, smiling.

I only ever hope that the words mean something to those who encounter them. I can’t fathom writing for any other reason. I need readers to understand the essence of me imbued in the words. Through them, they may learn something about themselves. My words are my viscera; may they fill your head and chest, bloom into something beautiful.