Would That I Might

It was very helpful to spend the time working on ideas about writing that didn't relate to Ulysses yesterday, but I am not really up for it.  As of midnight, it is October first, the day we were told when we adopted him that Ulysses had been born.  He would be four now, and I am just stuck thinking about him and probably will spend much of the next day in that state.  I will say that I did write some poems today that were completely unrelated, and I have an idea in the back of my head which I am hoping will reemerge soon.  Even if that poem does not come up, I know that I am writing work that is beyond this, even as I recognize the need to address what I am feeling in my work and keep communicating about this as well.

Not All There is more to say, yes, there is much more to say, that will be said, that I must say, will say, but now is not the time, now I do not know how I will say it, do not know the words, or what it is I must communicate, how it is to make language from this, but I will find the way to do it because it must be done.

I have been attempting to get myself to do work that is not related to Ulysses, and it is a bit hard, but it is starting to happen.  In that vein, I want to push myself to consider some of the questions I had been thinking about before he passed.  Specifically, I want to posit a question about stories that is in my head much of the time, and which I am not able to answer, yet, but which I think is worth considering. The question is this: what is necessary to communicate a story.  I mean this in a sense of not only what is needed as the elements of a complete story, but more inclusive of the question of what is it that makes it possible to extrapolate a story from elements.  If we consider it, often we are piecing stories from small clues, this is true in life as much as in literature.  Many times, details can be implied by a writer, or inferred from context.  I am curious to discover just how much does a person need in order for them to extrapolate a particular story from those clues

What to Watch It is not so much that in all the channels, hundreds now, on the new package, there is nothing at all to watch, no, it is not that, I am optimistic, or realist enough to think, some channel must be airing a program I would enjoy, but finding it, seeking through all the rest, that takes so long, flipping through five or six or, I do not know, really, I never got to the end, to the last channel, but that is what I am getting at here, it is not that I found a show before that, it is that I gave up looking at all, did something else instead.

I added my third poem this morning, and am glad to say I was able to get all my work done, despite my not being at all in the mood to write or think.  It is far easier to just not think right now, to be apart from things a bit.  But, writing requires presence, and I won't stop my work.  I have attempted to explain this before, but I am not certain I've done so in a way that makes sense.  I have a lot of very strong, positive memories of Ulysses, and the responsibilities I took on in caring for him did a great deal to make me a more productive person.  Waking each morning at eight am to medicate him, for example, helped to inspire me to do writing in those early hours.  I think the dedication to him also showed me that I could make daily routines and habits that worked, if it was important enough to me.  Allowing the work habits I've developed to fade would ultimately be something I regretted, and it would also become associated with Ulysses's death, which would be terri

The World Without You It will be a long time before anything feels right, in this, the world without you.  Always, it will be empty, in a way, never can it be whole, not like the world when you were here, no, but it will become normal, strange as it is to think, it will be normal that you no longer exist.

I find it very difficult, at the moment, to move my work away from recent events.  I suppose that is normal, but I would like to push past that.  I am glad to still be getting my work done, and I think it is time that I start pushing myself, as I had intended, to six poems a day.  It is hard, at the moment, with everything, to get to work and to get myself going, but I think that the challenge may be one I need and which might help me in moving through things.  If I am honest, much of the time I just feel like crying right now, and sitting down to write often brings me closer to my emotions.  It is a hard thing, at times, but I need to move through this and it may be that the writing is helping.  I don't know right now, and nothing, in the end, is able to "help" in the deepest sense, but it may be that I need to work through my grief a bit more in my writing.  I just hope I leave some room for other work as well.

Late Night Poem It is so late, but I am writing, sitting up at my desk even if I am tired I need to do this now, need to focus and write now, besides, I know my mind is filled with thoughts which will never let me rest, even if I tried.

I am still quite stuck thinking about Ulysses, and I do not know that I was able to get much writing done that wasn't really about my feelings on that matter.  In fact, one piece is a fairly long narrative about it, which I think is likely a bit overly emotional, but I am going to see what others think.  I am going to keep this short, as I am really worn and just need to stop right now. It is very difficult, at the moment, but I keep going, and I know that is important.  It would hurt too much to let this derail me, to look back and see that would add more to this than what I already am feeling.

How Are You? I do not want to be rude, or inconsiderate but the answer is not one that is simple or pleasant, or anything I want to discuss right now at least not with you, and I am not able to lie today, I am too hurt, too worn out, cannot pretend or dismiss my feeling at all, even just for the social grace of saying that I am fine.

In normal times, I would likely be remarking upon the fact that today is my four hundredth entry, but with events of late, with Ulysses's death, I am not in much of a mood to recall those events.  I can say that I miss Ulysses, who disliked my typing, so did not sit with me while I wrote, but often hung about just outside my office.  I am not certain how to deal with the loss, and I am finding it a bit hard to be stuck, in large part, writing poems about his death in some way or another.  These poems have value, of course, and I am glad for an outlet that might help me with my current feelings, but I also know it would be good to do other work as well, and with the amount I am currently writing, it does not mean that I can't write more poems that are related to Ulysses, though I am certain cat poems are not the best thing much of the time, let alone dead cat poems. When you are a poet with a dead cat, you write dead cat poems...  At least, that seems how it is for me.  And not

It Is Not Easy to Explain No, if you do not understand already it would take too much, would require giving you all the experiences, all the memories of what had to be done, what we did, what I did, what she did, what was done by others, it would mean knowing all those things, if you do not understand now, if you need convincing, it is a thing you cannot be made to see, so I will not tell you, but will hope one day you have learned what I would say for yourself.

I am doing this largely as a formality.  If you've seen my previous post, you already are aware that Ulysses, our cat, passed away today at just shy of four years old.  I won't go into details on that again, but I will say that I did do my work today, even in this state.  Granted, most of the poems I wrote tonight are maudlin and focused upon the events of the day, but that is a valid way to work through grief.  I don't want Ulysses death to become something that I feel stopped me or derailed me, as I think that would be a disservice to him and his memory.

In This Moment I must focus in, what seems small is a big hurt inside a life, it's one solace is how it drowns away the larger, less pressing and present issues of the world at large, though, alas, they too remain.

After my post this afternoon, indeed, while I was still sitting in this chair at my desk, I received a call from the Vet that Ulysses condition had worsened.  He had needed to be intubated to provide respiration.  A second call a few minutes later said that he had gone into cardiac arrest.  When we arrived, he was lying on a table with a nurse using a pump to assist his breathing.  We were told that he could breath but was not able to keep his oxygen levels high, that it was a question of whether his lungs would come back to work on their own or not.  We left for dinner and came back to see him for a bit, but were told he was more or less in a stable, though critical, state.  We left and drove home, about an hour from the hospital.  It was probably five or ten minutes after we came home that we received the call that Ulysses had another cardiac episode after which efforts at revival and resuscitation had failed. Melissa and I were not prepared for this at all.  Ulysses fourth birthd

This morning, I received word that Ulysses had vomited at some point during the night or in the early morning.  The attendant I spoke with, a receptionist I believe, was not able to clarify whether this was a serious issue or not, but assured me a doctor would call in the afternoon with more information.  When I did speak with the doctor, it seemed rather reassuring.  It was not a major deal that he had vomited, considering all things, and he seemed well in general.  They were going to keep him another night, but it was a matter of getting him to tolerate food a bit better, nothing too concerning. Of course, in these kinds of situations, things change often, and I received a second call a few minutes ago that brought rather bad news.  It seems that Ulysses vomited once more and this time it was clear he was actually spewing up bile and not just rejecting his food.  As well, he aspirated into his lungs and an x-ray confirmed he has pneumonia.  At present, they are attempting to stabil

While he is not yet recovered from his ordeal, Ulysses seems to be doing quite well.  Melissa and I spent some time visiting with him today, and he seemed to calm down, eventually, and just sit with us.  He was, in many ways, demonstrating his usual behavior, but was clearly still a bit out of it from his experiences and the medications for pain he is on.  However, they have said that he may be able to come home tomorrow.  I am quite glad for this, and of course am overjoyed at his general recovery, but I am still quite concerned about preventing another similar emergency.  If anyone knows of any treatments or prevention techniques for hairballs in cats, beyond the general (laxatone, linatone, etc,). please share your insights.  As it is, we may need to shave him, though that is not a definite solution either.  We are still waiting on some test results, so it is possible we will have a real solution soon.  It is wonderful that we are getting him home again, and I am attempting to focus

It Is Not Easy to Be what you are if what you are is not what they want you to be, but that does not change what you are or that you must do what you must to be that person.

It seems as though Ulysses is doing quite well in terms of his recovery.  He has become more alert, as things have gone on, and seems to progressing as hoped.  In many ways, this is normal in his life, really.  As mentioned, when he was a kitten, he began to have seizures, very extreme and violent seizures that often required overnight care at specialty hospitals, and eventually required us to find a neurologist who could care for him properly.  At the time, we were told that kittens having seizures was uncommon and was always associated with an underlying disease.  In fact, each week, we were warned that he might die, that he might already be sick with an incurable disease of some form.  All of this began within weeks of adopting him, with Ulysses still not even six months of age.  For a several months, Ulysses was in the hospital with seizures at least once a week.  This dwindled to once a month, once his treatment plan was sorted, and slowly decreased to a point where he has not had

Beds Our species had beds even before history, before most things were invented we were sleeping off the floor, not just on piles of leaves, though those were used, but in some form of bed, or so I understand it from my limited research into the matter.  We had beds long ago, slept much as we do now, which seems important, as though something of being human is more about that seperation we make for ourselves to dream away from the earth, as though we made our beds so we might lie apart from the rest of the world, as though we are not of it ourselves.

On occasion, I have mentioned my cat Ulysses.  As I have said in the past, he has had a number of medical issues, many of which have been neurological, but as well, he has had a few other problems. Specifically, a year and a half ago he underwent surgery to remove a hairball that was blocking his intestines.  A few days ago, Ulysses started to show symptoms similar to those he'd had when he had that surgery, and eventual it was determined that he, again, needed to have a blockage removed.  The surgery went well, for the most part.  They did need to remove part of his intestine, as it had damage that couldn't be repaired, but they believe that will not be a long term issue.  Still, at this point, he is in recovery, and while it is going well, we have to wait to see just what happens.  I have hope, as I've been in this place with Ulysses many times already, though he is only a few years old.  In the first several months of his life, we had a long period during which he was

Regression They said it would be again like it was before, talking about all the benefits of the old ways, the ways that had been abandoned for the new ways, though they did not mention why it was things had changed, forgot so much of what it had once been like, of course they wanted it to be that way, the way they remember, though they know it never truly was.

Today, finally, I got my actual computer set back up and I feel that I am back in full swing.  It really makes a huge difference, having the computer up and running, and I think it might be that my computer and keyboard set-up are sort of my pad and pencil.  Many writers have a preference for a type of pen and notebook, even, for many, a specific individual item that is significant to them. In the same way, as one who needs to write on a computer, I think that it is natural that I could develop that same affinity for the specifics of my computer set up. Their are certainly practical aspects to this as well, things that I could replicate in any decent computer, software environments, graphical and hardware settings, all that sort of thing, but the bottom line is, today, because I have the computer back, I feel more connected to my work.  I think, as well, it helps that I have the poems I've been writing directly in front of me on this machine.  Of course, I have duplicates of thos

All Wrong You have always sung those same wrong words to the songs on the radio, why is it now, she cannot find it endearing any longer?

I am really not certain what I want to write here tonight.  In many ways, I am in a sort of holding pattern, again, as I am attempting to get my new space fully functional. I found my computer today, but don't have the power cord for it at the moment, or at least I am not certain where it is located right now.  I am sure it is here, but that does not mean I know where it is.   Anyhow, it feels strange to acknowledge that I am so reliant upon the familiar tools of my usual work.  It is not so much that computer itself, but that what I am relying upon instead is not as robust a solution, and does not even have my usual writing software on it.  The tools I am used to matter to me, and I am not fully operational, I suppose, without them. I am keeping up with work, which is a good thing, but I need to get my new office fully set up in order to be truly back in gear. 

Erasing I erase things, which is a bad habit, but I do it, really, I just did it now, before this, before what you are reading now, I was writing, a whole long thing, written out, longer than this, and I decided to let it go, erased it all, went back to the start, but I do not know now, was it an act of freeing myself, a way of letting go, or something else, a denial, a refusal to own something, to make known a piece of myself?

I am finally back in a better writing environment, and that has moved me back, fairly quickly, to wanting to push myself more.  I'm not yet ready to really go for it, and I am still not entirely set up in my new office, but I do want to begin pushing myself again.  In part, this will be about thinking through some of the questions I had begun considering before I went through this upheaval, questions that are largely about understanding the work I am doing, developing an explicit knowledge of techniques I've used instinctively, for example, as well as gaining a stronger ability to explain some of the thought processes that go into the work.  In addition, of course, I want to push further, to create poems that are doing things I may not even have thought of yet.  I am interested, still, in integrating some of my new thoughts with older tactics, and I also am really wanting to do a wider variety of poems, including not only types I've explored before, but new ones as well.

The Assistant I feel bad for him, for the man who is assisting the handyman working in the house. The assistant does not speak much English, does not seem to know what it is he is asked to do. The handyman just yells at him, as though loud English equals Spanish, volume is the real language barrier. Maybe he really is not good at this job, but I would find it hard to do well while being yelled at in alien words.

I will be short again tonight, as I am facing unexpected technical difficulties.  Suffice it to say that I have managed, even still, to do my work, including this admittedly perfunctory entry.  This ongoing series of mishaps that I have been experiencing really is a bit much, but I can at least be certain about my own diligence and persistence.  Keeping on through recent times has been a challenge, but I am still here, and that makes me feel an incredible resolve to keep working.  Having kept on through this, I ferl a commitment, I cannot just quit on this when it is tough now that I have proven I do not need to.

Tired Long day that it has been, tiring, makes me wish I were already sleeping, but I am here, typing these words, making my way down the page, working even though my eyes are half closed already, working, because I know all that wore me today, tired as it has made me, would feel a waste, become only dragging sticks through mud, without this, I would feel worn tomorrow, tired in ways I only imagine tonight.

As predicted, tonight I am at last in a conducive working environment, and have, once more, my keyboard setup, which may seem a small thing to some, but is of great significance to me, as those who have read this blog for a long while already know.  As well, I am beginning to find myself thinking about the work I am doing in deeper ways.  While I am still fairly low on energy tonight, so I am expecting this will remain a shorter entry, I am also feeling much more connected to the work than I have in a long while, as I have spoken of in recent entries.  This restoration brings with it a sense, as well, that I want to look more closely at some of the questions that I had been moving towards answering about certain aspects of my recent poems. For one thing, I am still attempting to explain the idea of leaving the content vague, as I am finding myself doing so often lately, in ways that I think have been very effective.  It is not that the poems are not specific, as they are using fairl

Drive Home There are those moments when the old habits come up, when driving home, distracted, tired, just not paying attention because the mind is doing another thing right now which is more important, so, not noticing, not thinking leads to an old habit, turning the car down the roads that lead to a home that is not home any longer, a place where other people now live, a place that was not always a great home, but it was a home, is etched deep enough inside that at times like this, something wants to drive there, wants to go back instead.

I am rather at my wits end with my current writing options, and there is a part of me that would like to skip the work I am doing right at this moment.  Indeed, the aspect of my work that has been most vexing of late has been that which is involved with this blog and other online responsibilities, though my other work has sufffered as well.  Anyhow, I am optimistic that tomorrow will turn things around on this front, at least in part, and I think that I may well be able to get back into a more regular schedule of work again.  I feel quite glad to have made it through the past several weeks still on target with my writing goals, but I am ready to push myself, and I need to be in a more stable and constructive environment in order to do so effectively.  Tomorrow, I hope, I should have those resources once more.

On Principle I will not do it, no, they are wrong, even if it destroys me, I will not let them make me do that, it is wrong, a wrong that taints all that surrounds it, seeps out, turns rancid what might have once been beautiful in ripeness, the wrong has destroyed it, I will not let it within myself, will not succumb, even though you tell me I must, even when it is a fight no one thinks I can ever win.

Another short, perfunctory entry.  I'll try to make up for this in the coming week, as I am hoping to be more in control of my work environment again.  As I have said, though things have been rather difficult, it is really significant to me that I did not crack under the pressure but kept pace with my work.  At times like this, doing the minimum is often all that can be expected, and even that may be a challenge.  Just keeping up is, at times, an important victory.

Mourning It is too hard thinking I will never see you again, that you are passed through a door that I will never open, though I know it is so in my mind, even in the aching of my heart, I know it is so, but still am certain: it cannot be, must not be.  What is a world where your absence can be made so thorough?

Another short entry tonight, just to say that I've kept up with my work.  In many ways, until certain things shift and I am able to get back into a real routine, I feel like my work is largely on autopilot right now.  I mean, I am doing the work, but I am not really pushing myself, as my energy is in other things, and I don't have the resources I need to go more deeply right at the moment.  I should be in a better position after this weekend, I hope.  In the meantime, I am keeping up with the work, and who knows, I might discover, when I review, that some of it is far better than I expect, or at least offers a basis for future work.

Secret's Out Oh, we heard, alright, we heard all about you, about what it is you did, heard every detail already, know it all, we do, we really do, every bit of it, we know it, no, I can't even say, I won't repeat it, and you can't make us.

In the past two weeks, I have been writing in circumstances of increasing discomfort.  I had hope that today or tomorrow that would end, but it seems to be continuing, without much hope in sight of it shifting for at least a bit longer.  I am rather frustrated, honestly, as I am feeling that my recent work is suffering, that I've not had a chance to do the work I would like to be doing right now.  At the same time, a part of me relishes that I am not stopped by these things.  I may not be unaffected, but I do keep going.

Here Now None of it is the way it was said it would be, so many mishaps, disasters falling on us daily, but we made it through at least this far, have come past so much, now we must do the hard part to build a life, to let go of pain inflicted by the journey to this place, so we feel the freedom of having a home.

At last, it feels that their is light at the end of the tunnel. The past two weeks have been insane, and now, at last, things are turning around.  I am rather exhausted, as today was another grueling day, though hopefully the last for a bit, so I will probably keep this short, and I feel silly saying, yet again, that I am glad to have been able to maintain my schedule through this whole period, though that is how I feel.  I do think that my work this week has, in some ways, suffered, as I haven't been as focused as I might be, but I also wonder if I might not have made some really solid discoveries, and I also think I will recall this week the next time I am having difficulty writing, not only as a reminder that I can make it happen in  even the least conducive circumstance, but also as a way of considering what might shift my focus from writing, so that the pressure is off.  Indeed, that is the one advantage of being so crazed, my work became so secondary I didn't dare have an

Possibly So You may be right, that could well be the way it is, you may know something here, may have figured it all out, that is certainly one possiblity for how things could be, and you are wise to consider it, though it is also easy to wonder how you came to this particular conclusion, if it may only be that you are thinking the rest of the world would act like you, think the same thoughts, respond just as you might, because that is what you seem to suggest when you say you know how it will all go, and this is the answer you mean.

In spite of my comments last night, I have maintained my work, though I did not get to it in the morning.  I am a bit sad to not have done it as I usually do, as I feel that my creative process may suffer a bit, but I am quite glad to have done the total work I intended for the day.  I have, of course, altered this schedule before, and it is unavoidable at times when things are so hectic.  I am hoping that some time after tomorrow it will all calm down, but in the meantime, keeping up with the level of output that I've reached is my most important short term goal, and I am glad to say I keep achieving it.

Not Another I do not really have another poem in mind now, but it is time to write, so I am here, making the words march just for practice, maybe, though I must hope it will become a parade and not just a drill.

I am not sure who first said forewarned is forearmed, but I did mention yesterday that my short entries would likely continue at least a few more days. It is an exhausting week, with today as little exception, though abit more of rewarding, or that is the best I can put it at present.  I feel quite worn, and I was close to forgetting that I even had my writing to doo, wihich I would have dealt with, but I am glad that I did not reach that point tonight.  It may well happen, but I have an idea of how I would deal with it.  At the same time, I don't wish to do that to myself at all, and I don't want to turn this into some form of out, it is only intended for accidents, though one always wonders how such things can turn into a warning.  It does concern me, but it may well be that this concern is what will turn me away from missing my writing, and I have done quite well on that path for some time now.

Later No, that is not for now, it is for later, you should not have now what is for later, should learn to have it when the time is the right time, when it is later, when it is no longer now, when the time is one that does not feel at all like now, but like some time later then now, when a time comes and you feel like it is not now the time< but it is too late, that is the time, that is when you will have permission.

Just going to check in again today, as has been true the last few days, and will likely remain true.  I wanted to mention that I attended a reading by Freesia McKee today as part of the same series I read at last month.  It was really wonderful, and Freesia presented some really stellar work.  She is truly an up and coming star, already making a very well-deserved name for herself. In terms of my own work, I kept to my schedule.  I expect that in a few days, unless things go wrong (again), I will once more have my own computer and an office to work in, but right now I am making due.  The best I can say is that I have maintained my work through some ridiculous times this week, which makes me feel no matter what happens, I can always keep working like this.

The Nature of It All day long, or at least most of the day, from when it was the idea came, from that point on, it was always there, floating in the back of the mind, waiting to be given a chance, waiting for the time when work would start, but apparently only waiting to disappear right on cue,

I will be, once more, keeping this short, I expect, as today has been another long and difficult day, but I am glad to say that I feel quite good about a lot of the work I am doing right now.  I mean, in some ways, many of the poems still exist within a certain personal sphere, but as I have said, writing so much, even at my most self-indulgent, with vane absorption in my own problems at the forefront of my thoughts, it is not likely that even a day will pass without some transformation in how my work is reflecting that mood, or else it may entirely drop it and move in an unexpected direction.  Often this is the most delightful surprise for me.  As an example, the poem I posted tonight, The Magic Cocktail Onion , is one that came out from just wanting to do something in a different mood and key than much of what I have written of late.  It is a bit of a silly poem, in some ways, and it is not saying much that is really all that new, if I am honest, but writing it took me out of a certa

The Magic Cocktail Onion I tell you, one of the onions, small little things that they are, which is here preserved, one of these little cocktail onions is a magic cocktail onion, with properties both rare and desirable, not only in terms of the medicinal benefits it bestows, but in terms of what it grants the one who ingests it, for only a nickle each, you may try your luck, eat one of these little onions and see if it you find yourself restored, emboldened, empowered, impressively coiffed, well-oiled and raring to go, with pep in your step and a special something even the French have never quite named, maybe a bit of the second sight, too, told you it is a magic cocktail onion, not merely a health tonic in form of pickled vegetation, but magic, that force that bends or even breaks rules of reality, what might be termed a miracle, yes, sir, it is only a nickle to try, though you know out of all these onions it will only be one that is magic, ah, yes, all of you may try an onion,

It has been another rather trying day, on many levels, and I am utterly exhausted, as well as over heated and aching.  Again, I could use all this to say, as I did yesterday, that I am not going to work now, but I know how that would feel to me in the morning, and I do not want that.  As well, I do find, as I have said, writing a helpful part of processing things for me, at times. Beyond this, I also think it is worth my recalling a feeling that was extremely motivating to me early on.  It may be that I have forgotten this, as my work has become so stead, but the days when I did not work lacked a feeling of accomplishment and fulfillment, a sense of having moved to fulfill some purpose.  Writing is something that is integral for me, in my sense of self, even when I was not writing, so being actively engaged with my art is a way of feeling that I am spending the time I have on this planet in a meaningful and fulfilling way. On a day such as I had today, when most of my energy was za

Picking Futures Yeah, you have heard about what is down that path, the potential of following the life it would lead you towards, you think about it so much, but let me say that is not your way to go, will not lead where you want, you already know that, don't you, or else, you wouldn't be here with me, no, you would be out there now, doing what you know is not who you are.

I do not want to be writing tonight.  I've had a really awful day, which is part of a whole series of events that have played out in exactly the way I feared they would.  I had very little energy to really put into my work after all of that, and was honestly consoling myself with thoughts about how I am at least doing my work and getting it out there, attempting to keep some optimism about things, when, right on cue, I received a rejection letter.  In all truth, that rejection shouldn't matter much to me in itself, but I really was hit hard tonight, with everything else, and it really made me feel like not getting to work. But I did.  The poems I've written are not anything all that great, I don't think, and much of it was self-pity, but I did that work, and I know that tomorrow morning I will do more.  It does not change how I feel, or lessen the sting of that too well-timed rejection, but I do feel good that, at least, I am keeping at it, doing the things I can, e

An Emptiness has come inside to fill me, a cold nothing, easy to feel it there, the way it does not move, the lack of it at all, I hope to fill it soon, though I fear what might take up that space if I am not careful.

One of the great advantages of writing so many poems each day is that it does serve as a good outlet for certain feelings, but it always moves past that.  Now, it may well be that the first poem I write in a day is just me complaining, or attempting to express some particular aspect of a current problem.  It may not be anything more than my own thoughts on the issue in language, and it might not be very good as a piece of art. However, I am never writing just one poem.  What tends to happen is, I finish work on that piece and a part of my mind thinks, well, I can't do that again.  It is a conscious choice, in part, though one I could not necessarily reach without having purged the feelings first.  Looking at the first poem, I am a bit ashamed at times, or perhaps it is mere embarrassment.  That is a large part of the motivation, as I want to move towards work I find more fulfilling and which I won't look back on immediately after writing with the same kind of response. Afte

Shrinking World We say the world is smaller than ever, today it has shrunk a bit more than yesterday, the distance from here to there not so long as it was before, that is the way we talk about it, but still it is big enough that I can say those people over there, that is there problem, thankfully, it is not mine, has not come here.

This morning, I did not get to work for the very first time in I am not certain how long.  Part of this was exhaustion and stress, part was that I am not at home with access to my computer as usual, and that does pose a distraction.  I didn't get to work at all for a long while, as I was also busy dealing with many other things to do with my non-writing life and responsibilities, issues which have been exacerbated in the past few days.  Anyhow, I was didstracted, and I didn't think about not having worked.  But, when I did, I certainly felt a lot better in some ways.  While I have a huge amount that I am rather upset with right at the moment, and things that I have been complaining about, I am also aware of how lucky I am, having seen pictures of other areas that were directly impacted by Dorian, and I am honestyl not sure how to respond to a lot of it at this moment.  At least not in terms of writing, as I think we all can find ways to help and donate, but that is not my poi

Acceptance He had strange luck, most often bad, but math made him kind, as he weighed odds, considered each awful event to be one less loose in the world that might hurt another, a stranger.  An innocent.

Again, I am exhausted, so I am planning to keep this short tonight.  We have not yet had a major impact from Dorian where I live, but Melissa and I had to get ourselves ready in any case.  At he moment, we are safely ensconced ay my mother's home, which has hurricane glass and all that, so we should be safe, though we might lose pawer. We had a lot of work to do getting ready, and I am rather worn out.  I mean, I was physically moving large objects the last few days, including a several hundred pound block of marble that I am carving in our backyard.  I did have a hand cart for part of this and Melissa helped as well, but it was still a major effort.   Anyhow, we got things settled, and we are safe now, and I managed to keep up with my regular writing schedule.  Hoping to have power tomorrow so I can post an update.

Looking in The Mirror in the morning, thinking, really is that me, is that what I look like?  Thinking about the changing of my face over the years, a scar here, a skin tag I've been meaning to take care of.  I think I must be an optimist some way, for always, I note my blemishes as if I had believed they were gone, as if this time were different.

I was watching a documentary about the life of a writer, who does not matter here, but they were talking about how the author in question never said much nice about their own work.  It is pointed out that a part of this may an affectation of modesty, but it did get me thinking about this issue, and I think their is often a certain duality involved. For me, to offer the instance I am able to speak of most clearly, I think it is fairly clear that I have a healthy impression of my own work, if a bit egotistical at times, and I admit that I think my writing has value and may be better than much of what I've encounter from other writers struggling to build a career.  I think that my work is good, if I consider it, and I am willing to stand by that statement in general, though I admit to feeling a bit wrong even saying it here. Part of that feeling that it is wrong to say such a thing is certainly some kind of fear about vanity, but I think there is also something else at work.  On s

No Recipe Do you remember that time we planned to make dinner together, and you wanted me to bring this, but I forgot and brought that, but you couldn't find something and had whatever it was instead, and none of it was going to make a meal, so we wound up ordering something, probably Chinese food, if I think about it, and we didn't ever cook together, not one meal, ever did we wind up cooking together, or maybe even for each other at all?