Greg Correll

W R I T E R

Greg Correll

Greg Correll
Location
New Paltz, New York, US
Birthday
September 21
Title
Founder, Chief of Deselopy (small packages); Editor (doesthismakesense.com)
Company
small packages, inc.
Bio
I write.

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MAY 3, 2012 12:20AM

goodbye searchlight venus in the cobalt blue

Rate: 26 Flag

 

 

 

All of this,
what we share here,
comes from real human fingertips, bothering to touch keys

as our hearts keep pace: too slow, too fast; 
panic and I-want-to-go and I-am-done; tidal inhalations as I type.
I am full of thought. Then I am emptied of language itself.

Letters lie like spilled pins. So: you love me?
This kind of love, the easy, keyboard kind?
OK: I grab you, all you offer, all you spare, with broken hands and

hold tight, tap, tap,
deliberate me, my eye-mind-finger-abstractco
ncept-tap, more tap,
and you and I are real for a moment

r e a l

and some of us write in turn or just write,
breathe da Vinci's oxygen, refuse Torquemada's torch, and wonder:
did Lot's wife even have a name? We pretend everything.

Or are we mere stories, wanting to be awesome, settling for just collision.
Six degrees of text corrections.
One thin, last polish away from each the other, all of us, every day.

No? We are real?
And this, this here, is our what?
collaborative memoirish serialized nonfiction novel team project?

Are we in fact one shared identity here?
a fluorescing of human meaning and feeling, in aggregate,
with values like cold honey, sweet, stuck, slow to move, right here?

Distilled. Edited. We have greater clarity online, at times.
Galoot-colliding, plain-old reality misses the mark, goes a-kilter.
Sometimes this is better. This tap-tap.

And some rusted holes cannot be pitched. Our artful words alone
reveal the dark turn in us, the failure of damp matches.
Shh: you are safe, still safe, at your desk.  Slow your heart.

Are we real?
Mindful, compassionate,
even here?

Would you endure my sleepless twisting?
No: I mean for real real, my slapping shaking hand, jerking arm,
bent jittering foot, all night? tap taptap tap talk to myself half the night

fuck allusion fuck couplets and stanzas fuck if this is any good or why today was sheer misery, my head sideways on my arm while i tried to type, my left hand holding my right hand steady enough to click each key, to meet deadlines. I want my ability back. Fuck consolation. Constant reader I am not a quitter but I am so exhausted by trying to talk, just making loud-enough words empties me by noon, just making words come out in logical order after dinner so tired of this I just want lie down lie down to lie down and not get up o if it wasn't for my wife o wife o my children my bright bell and weighed anchor and un-reefed sail children my regular returning lights on this broken coast my children I would I would I would I would just give up just lie down just one last look at the pure spring green and the sun snapping behind the red oaks and willows then gasp at searchlight Venus in the cobalt blue then go. I just want to go. I just want to go now.

Today I will say anything, pay any price, to make this stop.
No, that's not true. Flip the switch: it's a lie.
I have bills to pay.
I live. I will live.

I love you all.
Thank you for bothering to be kind.
Tap, touch, send, quit, shut down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Comments

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Greg, I have no words to match the aching beauty of yours that speak to pain and suffering on so many levels but please know that I am holding, and will continue to hold, you tightly within my thoughts and prayers.

With love, Greg.

Kate
'are we real?' and if we are, how much are we willing to accept, how much can be different, can be harder before it's all too real? it's painful to watch someone whose challenge to answer those questions is closer to the bone than my own - your challenge, my brother's - even though none of us know how close to not being real we actually are, how soon it all becomes all too real. a brilliant piece of writing, greg.
Artists carry on despite the breakdowns of the container. Chuck Close, no longer able to paint after a stroke, now squidges wee balls of colored paper pulp onto a paper grid from his wheelchair. Matisse cut out chunks of paper when he could no longer see to paint. Renoir had someone wrap and tie his paintbrushes to his crabbed arthritic hands. There is something shimmering and exquisite about this work, a richer deeper experience than work created in a fully functioning container. Your writing is full of life, vibrates with it.
A terrible beauty and with all love Jon


r.
...places to go and people to meet.

Yes, this: ...a fluorescing of human meaning and feeling, in aggregate...
This. I will print on real paper with real ink and fold carefully to keep in my pocket near to my shaking jittery heart. It will be read repeatedly because it is as real as you and me.
Your writing is just amazing.
So sorry to read you're struggling, it's been while since I've come over here...
just re-read.
Your writing is just...just...so good.

@greenheron: 'Artists carry on despite the breakdowns of the container...'
Oh yes. Well said.
I love you greg correll. I love these words and THESE words particularly: Galoot-colliding

When I read it, I knew immediately that you had identified me as a galoot collider. (because - in the end - everything is not about you. but about me.)

and I LOVE it so much I may steal it but it's so fucking unique you poetic son of a bitch that it will forever be yours. NO ONE HAS EVER SAID GALOOT COLLIDING. and for that, I am awestruck and lovestruck and covetous and smiling like clam on a scam!

love is in the air! and this poem is wondrous and lovely and yes, sad but no...so in love with words. and how can you not be?
I know in real life, offline there is pain. life.

let me tell you something...in your words there is joy! PURE and of the words in the moment of your being. you become a mountain and all that it is: pines and air and morning mists and mythic waterfalls. and the spirit of the caves. those are your words.
Another midnight post. Not all of what i scribble is fit to print, or good for me. More and more my writing is a blurt -- like here -- or is a Longer Project of incremental fitting. But all of it is vain.

I find out later if it resonates, and from you. I hear my blurt, with new ears, I see my tapping with new eyes: yours. And so my ache and love and fear and failure seems better, clearer.

If only I could transcribe myself into this Me, the steady artist and balanced me. I care less and less for this failing physical rube.

It is real, we are real, aren't we? Here we are. We hold each other in trust, we are each others shared harvest, carefully preserved, as if all souls are put up for the winter -- and it is always winter -- on our neighbor's shelf, and we rely on each others light, the light through our jar the only reliable glow in our dark holler winter; the cold through the slats diminished by a moment, claimed, when we capture our ripe, nutritious selves and give them one to another.

Later, all is consumed. Meanwhile, we are radiant reminders. Thank you for your radiant reminders.

(Foolish Monkey: "poetic son of a bitch" lifts my heart. Writers are reliably wicked, aren't we?)
Greg and Monkey, you galoot-colliding poetic sons of bitches, have made my day!
You forgot "fluorescing," Chicken. OK, let's try it again: Greg and Monkey, you galoot-colliding fluorescing poetic sons of bitches, have made my day!
You break my heart.
we do.

sharing our interior secrets. hot whispers and dreams. it's all here.

like you, I have no idea what's coming out. but then I read it and as if someone else wrote it, there is something else......

muck settling, the water becomes clearer and I can see it. sometimes I can even retrieve it and make it mine. and sometimes what's' come forth is better than anything I can touch. and it's not from me but it's own.

funny, isn't it.

let your spirit be lifted in love greg correll.
man...so much to love here...so many words and bunches of words lined up together making magic. and it is love, THAT kind of love.
"real for a moment " until more words in other lines distract my fickle eye/heart and make me look away.

but for now? in this moment... real.
Greg,

I'm holding back tears, and my soul aches as I'm reading this and envisioning what you are describing. This is so beautifully written.

Thank you for being so giving and teaching us what true generosity is.

You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.
My mom had Parkinsons and I remember her as I read this. She lived a long life and I have no regrets although I wish I had had a better understanding of what she was going through and what she thought. You gave me a glimpse. Thank you for that.
I remember the scatological story you told about yourself on the tugboat on that June day on the Hudson. You were hilarious, like unexpurgated Twain. Your good friend, the captain, was so kind. You bonded with Nikki over words. You were generous in getting us all together.
You are kind, funny and giving as well as gifted. That is what makes us all feel your pain especially deeply.
You know that you and Deborah have an open-ended invitation to come down here. You almost did once before. I hope you do.
this literally has given me shivers. it gets more powerful, every time i read it. and this time i read the comments too. and what nourishment there. what stores laid up.

thank you, greg correll.
This begs to be read aloud.
Greg you give us hard truth in such a beautiful way. And tears as well...Forget those bills you are real, this is real. Thank you. tg
In the daylight you have let us see the night time pain. We are exhaustive by your words, as only those who read them with heart can truly be. We are sad. We in the place in between. Your words speaks volumes in the otherwise quiet of the night. Is that true, or is the night itself unquiet because it must be, it is the only time when we stop the living and beginning the dreaming and then we see. Love and strength to you, but most of all courage to dream it forward to see what you want and to live.
your writing is beautiful. you are. my heart aches with your pain. i wish life did not present us with so many opportunities to question our relationship with struggle, with pain, with resistance. I wish you were not given this generous portion of suffering and struggle. Please keep taking "one last look at the pure spring green and the sun snapping behind the red oaks and willows then gasp at searchlight Venus in the cobalt blue" over and over again, your gaze motivated by your love for and from your beautiful family. I love you too, dear greg.