The Scott Shaw Blog Be Positive

Representative of a Time

Today, I had the chance to look through some of my old books that I’ve written. I, like most authors, (I would imagine), have a collections of the books they’ve written in the past stuck somewhere/someplace. Me, I do too… They’re all in this storage unit.

Over the past few months, I’ve been thinking that I should find someway to give at least some of those books away to the people that would be into them. I mean, I have some of the early chapbook editions of my early poetry and stuff like that. I’ve got tons of the big publisher stuff, as they sent me boxes of my books, in all kinds of languages. The martial art stuff, I gave a lot of those away, as people were always asking. But, I’ve stuffed a lot of the MA books away, as well. I mean, what do you do with stuff like that? Except, as I did today, look through them after years upon years of them sitting and collecting dust.

I looked at some of my early poetry books. I used to write poetry all the time. But, it seems like in all things in life, if it doesn’t bring you happiness or make you money, sooner or later, those things fall away.

I could still write poetry all the time. I see the world and my life in terms of poetry. But, it just seems that I do not—at least not anymore.

Looking at that long ago written poetry, it truly provides/provided me with a look into my life. Even for me, it causes me to remember the feelings of a specific time and moment.

Looking… I think there’s a few of my poetry books that are very illustrative of my life and of me in a specific era. The later stuff is all like that. But certainly, one of my later published works, On the Hard Edge of Hollywood is strong. Deeper back, Scream Southeast Asia and the Dream and Suicide Slowly are good, as well.

But, nobody reads poetry. At least not anymore. I always hear about these Spoken Word events and how people spit their truth. It seems that a lot of popular songs I hear on the radio, of late, are like that. Particularly girls, with a few guy, going on and on and on about their life, their love, and their broken hearts. That’s poetry too, I guess. Just latched into a song.

How many people really want to know who a person truly is and what they have lived? I think most just want to project their own definition onto them. Even if they care enough to read their writings, do they truly want to know the inner person inside or do they simply want to define them by their own judgements and conclusions based upon what they read?

My poetry books are out there. You can read them if you want. But again, I don’t think that people care about poetry anymore. Really, did they ever? Or, was it simply a trend of culture formed in the art-based reality that took hold of the world for a moment in the ’50 and on into the ‘60s. I don’t know… Some people like Buk (Bukowski) got to get rich on it. Should have been me. Happy

But, with all that/with all this, all any of us are left with is our own life. Some of us simply write about that life—telling others (in whatever abstract manner) about the who we really are and the what we really lived—feeling what we are feeling; putting those feelings into words.

What does it all mean? I don’t know??? Do you? If you do, let me know. But… If I can think of someway to give out some of the book collection, I’ll let you know. I’m sure there are at least a few of you out there who are truly into art—even if that art is simply presented by means of poetry.