You all know that I have been somewhat tempestuous, as far as the poetic section of me is concerned, especially over my questionable relationship with dear Byron, Shelly, et cetera. I have come out of it no fonder of the former, but with something of an improved tolerance of the latter. I believe that I have resolved these issues and am ready to close the book on this chapter of uncertainty.  As a monument to this, as well as a quest for closure beyond what I have, I endeavored to seal the issue in all finality by writing a poem, reflecting on Byron, whom I identify as the representative of all of my disillusionment, partly because I harbor respect for him, but I do not like anything he wrote. The idea struck me in the midst of a math class and so I began writing then. After all, it was Coleridge who said something about abrupt poetry. Or perhaps it was Wordsworth?

It may be that there, the genesis of the problem is to be found. You see, although I have assured myself that my poetic independence is restored, in light of the production of several satisfactory verses, and the poem began rather well, I found myself unable, I confess, to complete, or even continue an acceptable poem. It was to be written in simple ABCB DEFE et cetera form, but when I picked it up to continue, I missed a line, which threw the entire poem off and cost me quite a bit. This brought me to a question about my standard writing style. I am loathe to use stanza spacing whatsoever and tend to write one solid block. Perhaps, had I spaced more liberally, I would not have encountered the problem. Regardless, I compensated by doing funny things with stanza spacing. Yet still I was unsatisfied. I may need to scrap the entire thing and start again, but start again I will! Indeed, I will finish, regardless of how long it takes, for now this is a personal challenge; a direct affront to me by the spirit of my dearest Lord and his ethereal host. Nay, I say! I shall prevail!

I confess, I had something of an altercation with the powers that be at my local learnatorium. They said some things that made me think. This is not to say that I am actually enthusiastic about changing in the ways that they recommend, but they had some things that I thought were storage.

A. I go to a college preparatory school. According to the little taglines on the bottom of their stationary, the mission of which is education. Their protest was that I invariably win verbal interchanges, but that I argue with my head, not my heart. That is, verbatim, what I was told. I can honestly not see what is wrong with this. I was under the impression that debating skills are desirable. My only thought is that it seems un-utilitarian to them to win an argument at the expense of someone else's feelings, for example, an argument against someone's personal philosophy. It is just that I had never, in all of my musings, considered that my intellect could be counted among my faults. I have a narcissistic personality disorder, this leads of course to my self-deification and maltreatment of others and also prompts me to blame my problems on others. That I am open to criticism for, although I will invariably counter it with some argument of my own and, according to the analysis of The Council, win.  Be that as it may, I am lead to believe that my peers are so "intellectually intimidated" by me that they have ceased to voice ideas that they think I will disapprove of. While some small measure of me is surely saddened by this, the majority of my takes this as a complement and a step in the right direction. If people honestly think that I am that intelligent, I am not sure why I can be faulted for it. Apparently, however, I can.

B. I am told that I view every interaction as a battle to be won. Here I was forced to confront the fact that I do view human interaction, in its entirety, as a conflict in which I must come out on top. The irony of the subject is that this intervention of sorts has not defrayed that world view, but rather re-affirmed it. The problem is that I have been using the wrong tactics. While I have held victory to be synonymous with voicing my principals, I set it now at getting through high school. If I can do that at Doane Stuart, I am much more likely to get into a good University and you, I believe, can predict it from that point. Once I do this, I shall head to South America and send to my dearest tormentors a set of letters, informing them that they were used, I have not changed in 28 years and that they are banned from my country. Then, if I am, by some unknowing secretary, sent an invitation to a Gala or a request for donations, I will send them yet another envelope full of small pieces of paper reading "fuck you fuck you". I shall humor them, yes, but I will need to find another outlet, for to complete my education without my person remaining intact, it shall be an empty victory indeed.


Heilner out.

I have always considered myself to be at the forefront of intellectual confidence, but today I appear with a confession. That is, I am having a poetic identity crisis. That is not to say that I am wondering who I am in iambic pentameter, but rather that I find myself bereft of poetic identity. I have undergone multiple stages of metamorphoses in an attempt to achieve poetic greatness in my own right, for I consider myself a poet of sorts. However, I have found my best work to be that mocking or paying homage to my intellectual forbearers. I quite enjoy my respectful imitation of Sylvia Plath, located several entries previous to this one, and received moderate commendation for my mimic of Shelly's poetry, as seen

Now, whether it is as consequence of my failure to practice my own form of poetry, my over intellectualization thereof, or a lack of original inspiration, I have been unable to get back into my own personal "groove", as it were, if I ever had one to begin with.

Therein lies the problem. I do not know where I stand. I have attempted to regain my identity through prolific writing, in hopes of stumbling upon a starting point or something that I can work with, yet it has been for naught. All that I have produced is unremarkable drudgery. I was therefore forced to conclude the following- I do not have a style. At the point of said realization, I attempted to rationally consider what style I should adopt, based on my state of being and the poets to whom I feel an affinity. Again, I was unable to conclude anything of use. Naturally, I will continue to endeavor to achieve a unique style of my own, but meanwhilst, I am left with the following facts.
-I am in need of a style.
-I am rather good at imitation, especially of Romantic poets.
-I despise the Romantics.
-Byron hated his own poetry, or so I am told.
...

On another note, my recent re-reading of Herman Hesse's Beneath the Wheel sparked a link in my synapses. I noticed the predominance of the name Emil in his works. I wondered why. It was then when mention of Rousseau conjured the name of his archetypal Noble Savage, Emil. The realization then came that Emil was never a man character in Hesse's books. He was a peripheral or secondary character, never treated with enough information to form an objective correlative, but always with enough respect from the author to make him a somewhat intriguing character. Submitted for your consideration.

Yours, etc.