I am struck with the conundrum that this statement possesses, but I am unaware what to do to rectify the whole quagmire (read "thing"). I was discussing the state of my intelligence with lady_fox earlier this evening when I had to wonder what that state was. I've decided and have believed that my general writing style lacks a certain wit that comes from being "worldly."
I said as much to her and, being the astute woman she is, ask what that actually means. When I said I didn't really know, I thought about what I want it to mean. Basically, I think of a person in a leather chair reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by a fire worldly. However, I also believe people in hot air balloons to me "worldly."
I suppose it is being well read and well traveled. I am neither. I have not left the states and do not read all that much. In such a definition, all philosophy majors and international travelers are more worldly than I. In this case well read seems to mean readers of intellectual books not unlike philosophy treatises, though some philosophers are far from intellectual and quite absurd (read Berkeley or Leibnitz).... I think to be truly worldly and therefore the apex of the writer I wish to become one needs be well read and well traveled, preferably by hot air balloon.
Meta-thinking of this as a type it leads me to believe that I am one half of the equation further along than I had previously believed. If I put in a pinch of effort, it would seem I am capable of the prose that I want. Now, transferring tis to poetry is more difficult.
...Rereading my discussion of my poetry with Fox, I am again over-analyzing (or should it be analysing?) the whole mess and really should pull my head from an inhospitable orifice. My poetry has become what I used to despise (I fear it may soon become what I despise right now). That being poems filled with references to dead myths, languages, personages and any other intellectual goody that I have come across.
I, with much zest I might add, refused to endure that sort of writing only a few years ago. I had said that the poet was mired in self-gratification, when the truth is probably closer to the poet has a faint glimmer of "poem" that needs fleshing out. That poet, being well read, fills gaps with logical knowledge of quaint arcana. In essence, the poet is lazy sod with nothing better to do than have writers, now so long dead that an argument would scarcely be a death rattle, do the hard bit for them.
Ah, so it would seem that I am doomed to become a lazy poet that has seen L'Arc de Triumphe.
So be t. At least then I can feel fully self-involved when readers must plead with me to inform them what "Ulfr" really means.
Now this entry is really amusing...
Ulfr means wolf, by the by.