March Is Question Month: The 'I Feel Loved' Edition

[fr_defenestrato]

cbpotts asks: How does one go about separating the creative act (art, writing, etc) from the act/self-awareness/performance aspect of being a creator -- and more importantly, should one?

Since infancy I am a windup toy
set whirling to delight the bourgeoisie
and stoke parental pride: a gifted boy
whose singular métier would seem to be
discernment and fulfillment of such acts
as make the grown-ups smile: singing a hymn,
playing the piano, citing obscure facts
re angels' differences from cherubim—
and making sonnets. Surely such forays
could hardly have resulted otherwise:
My every work is meant for human eyes.
When writing, an imagined spotlight stays
spot on me through each pirouette, each phase,
each put-on voice, each fauvian disguise.

(Note: 'fauvian' is a made-up word. I was alluding to fauvism, the early 20th century art movement led by Matisse. If you're uncomfortable with the form, substitute 'wavian' as adjective for 'of or related to Evelyn Waugh'.)

From writerbear81: From what I can tell, you seem like a pretty free spirit, sexually. What activities do you enjoy the most, and what is completely off your menu?

That I am quite the wanton libertine
regarding human congress—whether sex-
ual or platonic—may be plainly seen;
But strangely, almost nobody suspects
I'm more vanilla than vanilla bean
(except for piss): my cock never erects
for punishment or similar role-play scene;
for leather, rubber, PVC, latex;
for meth or crack or x or ketamine;
for degradation, domination, ex-
crement, blood, whips and chains, or acting mean.

(I know. I'm boring. Mostly I just like making guys positively squirm with my mouth on their nether bits.)

Also from writerbear81A second question: Who was your favorite character on Buffy, and why?

The Scooby gang rocks;
yet one character stands out:
The guy with the cheese.

(And then a disclaimer and much Buffy geekery.)

furmuslbulk pokes thus: Why won't you answer questions in April? :-)

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour...
Mmmm, liquor... fuck this noise, pour me some more!

My brother eloquentwthrage asks, What's your favorite childhood memory of you and me?

'Do you recall that time...?' Neither do I.
These things don't come when called; they happen by
at random intervals and unannounced.
There was that time that you and Dawnie bounced
your way through Nanny's last remaining nerve...
but that was just you guys; I was observ-
ing. What about the three years that we penned
those faboo Hallowe'en parties for your friends?
Madame Leota, recreated here
in Shrinky-Dink! And what about the mir-
ror/skeleton effect we made one time
with window panes? It's nice to think that I'm
replete with happy memories; since it's true
there were some dreadful ones—dreadful for you—
but how cool is it, all the fun we both
can claim as all our own? —Love, Dirtsome Loath

I shortchanged pagerbear (sorry luv!), who asked 'Are you looking forward to National Poetry Month?'

There's a National Poetry Month?
Jeebus, don't I just feel like a dunth!

My dear rozebud asks, 'Will you ever stop hosting Movie Marathons? I hope not...but I could see where after so many years, it could be wearing...'

Who knows what will become of us in time?
All our best dreams are finite, and while I'm
not planning on retiring as 'thon host,
I shall eventually give up the ghost.
I may be nuts to do this twice a year,
but when the hour of my demise is here,
let's hope a need to carry on is felt
by one whose rooster crows upon the veldt...
CHARGE!

(Accompanied by a usepic of Teddy Brewster, a.k.a. Teddy Roosevelt, in Arsenic and Old Lace [1944])

From readherring: Who took your brother's book?

John Gotti. Hawkeye Pierce once said,
Of M*A*S*H camp larceny,
'...ill-gotten booty... or ill-booten
Gotti!' QED.

And finally, though not in direct response to my question memery, bistet asks 'So what was the point?' of going through a 30-day non-drinking stretch, if I'm just going to hurry back to drunkenness. Which I am. Have. Done.

One might as well ask, What's the point of love?
Since lovers all eventually die;
or why i ought to let ol' Doc Stearn shove
his latexed finger up my butt since I
have no immediate prostate complaint.
What is the point of anything that ends?
Why memorize a poem? Why show restraint
in salt or sugar intake? Why have friends?
Why sweep a floor that's bound then to accrue
the same infinitesimal detritus?
Is there a point to anything we do?
Do truth and fiction matter in the slightest?
As Albee said—it's as true now as then—
We must proceed as if they did. Amen.