Would That I Might

Things are rather dismal around here.  Melissa and I have both been sick.  She seems to have something like the flu, and I have a gout flare up.  We have both been in bed most of the day as a result.  I almost did not do my work.  I was sleeping on and off, feeling quite miserable, and I almost said "screw it", but then I thought about this blog and decided I had to update it, which meant i would have to also post a poem, so if I was going to write one poem, well, I was going to do my usual work.  So, once more, it is my commitment here that pushed me to keep working even when I had plenty of reason not to.

It Is So Dark Tonight No moon, I find only one star and it is so dim, it disappears if I look straight towards it, I must focus on the darkness besides it, to see it's light.

This week, though I have been home, I have been continuing to work on my phone.  For the most part, this us because I have been having difficulty getting upstairs with my sprained ankle, though for the last day or so my other ankle is the one causing me trouble.  That is not too shocking, as my non-sprained ankle is the one which I broke years ago, a break that required surgery to install a metal plate.  I have been relying on it to make up for the other leg's weakness, and that is catching up with me.  The phone is far from ideal, for even more reasons than I have ever elucidated here, but it is important for me to keep going, and I am glad to find myself sticking to that commitment even under the current conditions.

What Was Entrusted to You was the care of a family legacy, one that had been handed to you by your parents, as it had been passed to them.  Now, you wish to be done with it, say it will be  impossible to keep, but you were entrusted with protecting this, with making certain it would remain for future generations of your family. If it cannot be saved for them, that is your failure.  Your parents trusted you, but they are dead, only the children will be denied it.

Well, here in the United States it is Thanksgiving, and I hope that those of you reading this who celebrate the holiday are enjoying it.  My own holiday went quite sideways, as the poem I posted attests to.  I do want to express my thanks for this blog and anyone who reads it, even if only once   I have stated before that I think of this as a central part of my work, and it is where I commit to my work in public.  I do truly think that if I didn't write this blog each day, I would likely stop keeping up with other positive habits in my writing.

Thanksgiving Optimism I want to offer my thanks, to be grateful, to say how glad I am that the man I did not know, thenone who sat across from me at dinner this holiday, did not die: when he became sick, started spitting up beige liquid, I felt certain he was having a heart attack, and I am so glad he only vomited, did not ruin the meal even worse than that.

I found a working keyboard so that I can use on my computer for the moment.  I did work up there this morning, but it was interrupted, and this evening I found myself in quite a bit of pain with my ankle, so I decided to just write on the phone.  Honestly, I feel pretty good about some of the poems I wrote this evening.  I suppose I am getting a bit more comfortable on the phone, though I know I am still much slower writing this way.  At this point, though, I don't feel as mentally hampered by the process, even if I am still quite annoyed by some of the ways that autocomplete  and autocorrect work on the phone.  Tomorrow, I really hope I will be up to working in the office.

They Have No Children and do not care about the world that will remain after they are dead.  They will sell the legacy of generations, what they were gifted to steward forward, as their own parents had, certain it would continue for generations to come.

My keyboard may be salvageable.  My brother thinks he might be able to fix it, so he has taken it with him tonight.  I don't know when he will have the time to work on it, but I am hoping it won't be too long. In the meantime, I need to pull out  another keyboard.  I am certain I have at least one that works,  but I will need to find it.  I am pretty certain it is up in my office, but I haven't looked yet. Anyhow, I am still on the phone tonight, but I will have to find a way to get on the computer tomorrow, even of I must use a backup and not my mechanical keyboard.  I feel strange being upset about that, considering how I have been writing lately.

I Need A New CPAP Without sleep, there is some stolen essence of the world, a gray, pale hand touches the world all about, makes it impossible to notice what is not dull, all things are blended into a bland paste, a tasteless pap. Tonight I will try to restore myself again, but I know tomorrow, I will wake to a bright dawn whose colors will not seem vibrant before my eyes, my ever weary eyes.

In spite of being home, I am still stuck using my phone, as my keyboard(which I am rather attached to) is not functioning.  I am at least keeping up through the setbacks and distractions I am facing, and I do think I have produced some excellent work, despite the limitations.  Hopefully i can get my keyboard working tomorrow, but even if I don't, I know I will keep up with my work.

We Hate When They Say "No" When they say "no" it is with a long stretched sound, the mouth vulgar, wide, gaping. We know better, speak the word fast without exaggeration. When we say "no", it is much better.

We have made it home, but I am exhausted from travel, and my ankle is sore from the car, so I chose to do one more night on the phone.  In the morning I will have the energy to go up to my office for work, but tonight, I am just glad to report that I finished my work and am ready to get some well needed sleep, finally in my own bed.

On Restless Nights Months after, I still wake in the night to find the cat before I recall the little box where what is left of him now rests.

We return home, at last, tomorrow, and I am quite excited for that.  It has been difficult to get work done under the conditions that travelling has created, but I am better for having made it through without faltering.  I am excited to get back to a more conducive environment again, especially as I want to see what happens once I am no longer feeling so constrained again.

Travel Warning The snow did not come again our entire stay, only seems to have arrived to hamper our drive to town. All through our visit the weather was clear, albeit cold.  But no snow, not even rain that I recall. But today, as we drove towards home, again a storm emerged, darkened the highway.  No snow this time, only rain.  Heavy, though, enough we could not see far beyond our own hood, the highway was slowed. Is it the world sending dange to marr our travels, or some unconscious psychic death wish? Weather is to random for coincidence. 

We have begun our journey home, and I am hoping that I will begin to readjust my writing habits as a result.  I may wait until we are really back, as I am seriously considering whether I should just keep writing so many poems each night, and perhaps.as many in the morning as well.  I feel like I have been training myself, especially with the limitations  of the phone as writing implement.  It feels like it would be a waste not to use these last few weeks as an opportunity to push myself forward, and this seems a good way to embrace what I have learned by these experiences.

At Dawn  the sky twisted through its hues, turned purple and red and orange, glowed brighter, seemed about to ignite entirely with flame.  After that the great blue expanse came, turned the sky calm. The test of the day, I watched for hints of what had been, but it was gone, I had to be content with the clarity of its vast blue.

I am going to be very short on here today, as it is after two in the morning already and tonight is our last in town.  We check out in the morning and plan to drive to Tennesse, so I best get to bed.  Suffice it to say that I did my work all in the evening once more, but it is done.  That really feels like quite an accomplishment itself at times, though I do think some of the writing is quite good as well.

Slow Recovery It does improve, each day is better, strength growing, I can walk farther before my ankle becomes too agitated, but still, it aches, leaves me to wonder when it will be healed, if that ever will occur.

Another long and exhausting day, and I was rather tempted to not do all of my work.  That I had received another tejection letter this morning added to that desire.  A part of me wanted to just give up.  Why bother keeping up with the work when it seems to be getting me nowhere?  Honestly, I am not really certain how to answer that, but I keep working anyhow.  That seems significant to me, though I cannot explain why and am quite content allowing f that mystery to remain unexplored. 

When You Call Me Son it is an insult to me, the implication of it, of who you think you should be to me. Worse, it  insults my father:  do not place yourself beside him.  Do not insult my dead.

It has been another long day and I am exhausted.  Again, I didn't get to work earlier in the day and did everything in a burst tonight, after everything else was done for the day.  I find it quite interesting that I am.anle to do so much work in a single go, and am considering what it means about my potential goal output when I get back home.  I know that I am writing shorter poems because of the phone issue, at least most of the time, but I am faster on a keyboard anyway, and I think, if anything, I am spending more time on the work now in spite of any reduction in the length of my output.  It may be that I get home and find myself wanting to write a dozen poems at night, having grown accustomed to the pace.  I can imagine, in the end, doubling my output as a result of meeting the challenges my current situation has presented.

Say Nothing We cannot let them know the danger of our situation, the nature of what we fear: if they know, it will increase our  peril.  We must find a path to safety first, without letting on that anything is wrong.  Stay calm, be alert, but be sure our enemies do not know they hold the power.

I have complained a good deal about the limitations and annoyances of writing on my phone.  It is not really the best method for me, but it does work, though it is slow and difficult for me.  I have spoken a number of times about my feelings about keeping with my work under these circumstances, but today I also considered the question of how working in this way will impact my future writing, once I am back to my regular schedule and tools.  I cannot help but believe that it will have a positive impact, though I am not yet certain what they might be.

Experience Has Taught Him to be suspicious of any good which comes to him, to wonder what it is will prove his boon to be a curse in disguise.

Though I am keeping up with my work. with my phone, it is rather laborious for me, and I am finding it is making me quite a bit slower with my writing.  As well, I find certain aspects of writing on the phone really irritating.   In particular, I can't stand autocomplete.  When I am composing, I want to type each letter myself, not only because I value that sense of complete connection to the work, but also because I often find my mind discovers the right word as I am typing.  I might think of one word but realize that another similar sounding word fits better.  I may write a syllable and decide that is the right syllable but not the right word.  I have to train.myself to not look at the suggested words, as I don't want to be influenced.  As well, I have rather large hands for thumb typing, so I am often making errors, and punctuation is not intuitive, and on and on.  It is not an easy way to work for me, but I am foing what I must to keep up with my writing.  I don't have

It would be nice to be done already so I could get on with not doing anything in general, or doing nothing in particular, wind my mind down from a long day with a bit of not doing this or that, just let me finish this, then ot will be time to start the important work that only idleness can accomplish.

It has been a long day and I am exhausted.  I did not get much work done until tonight.  Melissa has not been feeling well, so I was taking care of her, and I want to let her rest,  so I have been out in the hotel lobby or outside in the cold (even this late the lobby seems to be intermittently busy), doing my writing.  It is not always easy to keep to the commitment, and tonight I am just beat, but still, I know how I will feel.about the work I have done tomorrow.  It is not just keeping busy, I am certain that at least some of this work has real value.  The point of the practice is in doing it, but doing it is also a way to build something more.

We have been away from Winter so long, have loved beyond its grasp, but it must have missed us, it seems it must have, the way the first storm seemed to follow us here as we drove north, darkness in the afternoon turning rain to sleet then sleet to snow. We arrived with Winter, they said, people we met or saw, those who heard when we had arrived.  It came that afternoon, with us, as we pulled in to the hotel near the nursing home where your mother is in rehabilitation.

Earlier today I was contemplating the ways the different possibilities within particular mediums.  Neil Gaiman is fond of pointing out the silent panel in comics as distinct from anything one can do on a novel, for example. The particular incarnation of this problem that came to mind for me, today, was that of the difference between a flashback and a retelling, as each exists on the page verses in performance.  In a book, as well as in a film or theatrical piece, one can implement either device; however, on the page, a retelling is not different as an experience for the reader than a direct flashback.  That is, because both are read, the flashback and the spoken version are parsed into experiences.  A prose writer can choose to include elements of the events around a retelling, and still gets the reader to experience the events as described with equal experiential fidelity to the rest of the story. In film, a clear difference is apparent: if a character only describes an event that

A World without Magic How is it you looked all about the world and saw no magic? Did you never once think to look at yourself?

So, though I am writing on my phone, I am being quite productive.  It is not my favorite way to work, as I have said, and it does not seem to be growing on me.  I am constantly mistaking and I can't stand the autocomplete features whole composing, but I am still working.  In fact, this morning inwrote an extra poem.  As in many recent cases, it was accidental, but I think I will maintain the new pace.  If is nice to find that I am still moving forward, even under these conditions.

No One Will Take Responsibility they all say, we did nothing wrong, it is not our fault, though it was our job to get this done, no one did anything wrong.  No, it is made clear they will not accept responsibility, but still they want my business, want me to trust them to do work they do not want to stand behind.

Though it is rather early, I am quite exhausted tonight, so I am going to keep this short.  I am still writing via phone, and a m not truely comfortable writing this way, but it is currently the best option available, so I am making use of it.  As I have said before, I have reached a point where I feel that I need to do what I must in order to keep up with my work.  At least I am getting accustomed to using the phone, despite its limitations and challenges.

Remember Your Burden For so long have you carried that weight, never has it been placed down, not for a moment have you tested since it was heaped upon your shoulders.  Did you lift it yourself, or was it dropped upon you without choice?  It is too long ago to tell, will soon reach the point where you forget it ever was not there, accept that it is not a thing you carry but a part of yourself.

One of the issues which arises for me in thinking about the kind of writing I am interested in pursuing is about questioning limitations.  Many rules exist that writers are taught over and over again, presented as the one way, the only way, that works.  There is often truth in such ideas, but the real truth is far more complicated and less exact or obvious. To offer an example, writers learn not to use adverbs.  Now, this is good advice, generally, but it is simplified into an exact rule.  Better would be to explain that verbs are the engines of a sentence and using an adverb won't make a bad verb stronger, and can weaken one that would be strong standing alone.  That does not mean never, but it requires a nuanced understanding. The thing is, many such rules become ingrained to a degree that writers do not question them or explore what else can be done, if we go in a different direction.  When these are rules about the nature of story, for example, I wonder at what might exist

After Abandoning Another Half-Finished Poem Oh, false start, what a strange friend you are, popping in to excite me with promises not kept, and yet, the provocation, the stir to unfinished action, is quite enough to wake my desire, so I must prod inspiration, get to work in earnest.

I am still stuck writing on my phone.  I am glad that I have this option, at least.  I would be in far greater difficulty if I had only paper and pen, and not merely because that would prevent me from posting online.  It is truly painful when I must write by hand, so I am grateful to have an alternative, even one as inconvenient as my phone. 

You Are Wrong  I know it is so, that you are all wrong.    It is obvious to see: it is clear.  If you knew anything, thought it through at all, obviously your opinion  would be the same as mine, but it is not so.  Instead you are just wrong.

I continue to be handed challenges to my writing.  Today, my computer is acting up, forcing me to do all my work on my phone.  This is not at all ideal, especially with my disabilities, and I was tempted to just give in.  But I have to see this as a chance to show that I am committed and resilient, that I will let myself be tossed off course by such annoyances.  The work matter to me, and I need to show that each day with my effort.  So, I am here, doing the work.

You Must Stay for Dinner Come in, take off your hat, your coat, even your shoes if you will.  Sit.  This is a good seat. It has been too long, you have been away too long.  I know you are busy, That you cannot stay long, but I am so lonely. Sit here, please sit, you do not wish to leave so soon, besides, I have your shoes now.

I am on the road tonight with Melissa and am writing this from the hotel’s business center, which is not the most conducive environment for working.   It really is  rather hard to keep my mind on task in such a place, so I will likely keep this rather short.    I do not, really, know how much is the environment and how much is just a result of it being a long day on the road.    Still, I have managed to write ten poems tonight, as I didn’t have a chance to do that work earlier.    I am quite glad to find I can push myself through this work, even when conditions are so far from ideal

The Man Whose Luck Is  Always Against Him does not see one event then another, but a pattern where all things blend together.    It must not be that this bad thing happened here, but that bad one is separate.    They must be one thing, all of it must be one thing, or why is it always happening.    To see oneself at the center always of disaster, it is inevitable to think it must be for a reason, there must be a connection, a cause.    But who can find reason for such a thing? It is not there, is only a series of events, separate acts with independent outcomes that strangely, inexplicably, have aligned into a series of misfortunes. If only it were easy to see them as separate when it is your own bad luck.

It has been a very long day, and tomorrow I am supposed to leave for Ohio with Melissa in the morning, so I am going to keep this short.  Suffice it to say that I sent in my submission to Theatre Lab.  They promise to respond by the beginning of December, so it won't be too long before I know what they decide.  I am optimistic, though I do not want to jinx myself, still, I feel strongly that the play is well written and interesting and that it is deserving of development.  If nothing else, I am still quite proud to have been able to get the work on it done this week while still keeping up with my other writing.  If nothing else, I am writing so much, I am bound to improve my work just through sheer effort and force of will.

That Was The Day we all wore striped shirts and oversize hats.  It seemed we would all be dancing forever, that day, that we had found a way for all of us to be together, even having a good time, but the next day, we all looked back at the pictures, embarrassing, not what anyone wanted to remember, so we all forgot that night, everyone let it be buried, even parts we all know might well have saved us, might have let everyone find a way to be together.

I have finished a full draft of my play, and it currently is sitting at ten pages, though I have to do some formatting and see what results from that.  I think it is likely to get a bit longer, but I don't see it getting crazy, and I think it may be easy to fix if it gets a bit too long.  I don't really know, exactly, what the format I should use is, and their is not a specific word count, so I am going to see what I can do.  Certainly, it should be shorter than my monologue last year, at least the version that ultimately was read, as it is far less dialogue heavy.  A monologue is all one person speaking, so it is easy to make it fairly dense.  Here, a lot of the dialogue is quite simple and short.  There are a few minor speeches, but even those are not so long.  Of course, I should not be obsessing about the length.  It is a fairly minor issue, and I am in the right zone, most assuredly. Of course, the work itself is a bit strange, but I hope that will not be a detriment to

Whatever It Is You Have No More of, I Want It. Do not tell me what it is, I will somehow ask for it,  It will become the thing I want long before I know I cannot have it.

I have made a great deal of progress on my play, which is good, as it is due quite soon.  It will be finished on time.  I can pull that off, I know it, even if it means staying up quite late one or two nights.  In order to finish work on my script for last year, I had to do a lot of work in a short period, and was able to really pull of a huge amount by doing that. My biggest concern, really, is that I may have plotted a bit more for the play than can actually work, but I think that can be fixed.  Once I have a basic draft (hopefully I can finish that tomorrow, early, or in the night if I am awake), I can see if I need to make real cuts to it, and then can work on that.  I think that I am likely to be able to trim a great deal without losing the content.  Once I know the whole shape, I can find ways to make it work inside the limits placed on me by the format.  Of course, it is also possible I am over estimating.  The first segment is likely the longest of the piece, with most of the

It Does Not Matter If I Do This now or not.  It does not even matter, I do not think it would matter, if I never did it at all.  It would change so little, probably even less than little.  It would not change even a little thing, only nothing would be changed by my doing it.  But, somehow, taking the step, it feels, even knowing it will not change anything in the world, as though starting itself has changed the whole of the world already.

In many ways, issues surrounding publishing are quite complicated.  This is not merely about my own personal experiences, or about my desire to get work into print, but about the larger questions of social movements in our time.  To begin, I want to admit that I, as with many people, do not always think of myself as "privileged."  This is not an uncommon thing, really.  I recall a teacher of mine, in high school, admitting at one point that he had to have it pointed out to him, that though he was African-American, his identity as a straight male gave him a higher standing than many in general within the culture.  It is not to deny his experiences as a minority, but instead to recognize a larger context in which identity can be far more complicated than any one dimension.   For me, as a person who is Jewish, I often do not identify myself as white.  This is a complicated issue, and one I am not wanting to debate at the moment, but I recognize it as being conflicted for many

Why She Will Leave If I Cry It had to be held back.  It would have been too much, it would have been self-destruction, explosion, uncontrolled, uncontrollable. Someone had to hold it all together, it was a responsibility.  Letting out that pain was not a real option. No, it was too strong, had to be pushed inside, suppressed deep inside, not to be let out.  But now, to see any emotion in others, it is too much, brings too much awareness of what has not been dealt with.  Inside, it has built a pressure that must not be released. To admit that, though, to admit the reason for not looking in the eyes of those who cry, it would be too hard.   Instead, it is admonition, only this way is right: do not express what is there, push it inside.  Any other response is wrong.  Why should anyone express their pain? It is too selfish of them; for that they deserve only scorn,

I am going to keep this short, as I am rather exhausted, but, beyond my regular work, I started on my new play.  It is actually, at least in part, building off an idea from a poem, as that seemed a good starting point.  As I have said, often it is that starting point that is most difficult for me, but once I am going, it becomes much easier.  The poem is about a girl who falls into a hole and her parents leave her there so she can climb out herself, because they do not want to spoiler her by helping too much.  The play, clearly, will have more to it than this, but it felt like a good place to start.

It Was My Fault that we did not arrive: I misread the invitation, read the end time as the start.  It is a silly error, one anyone could make, though I am inclined to it, of course.  I am glad, though, I was with you, who knows that, who can make me remember it is alright at times for me to make such mistakes.

Today was a very long and difficult day.  In truth, I really just feel like crying right at the moment, but I still managed to do my writing.  While it is not always cathartic, or even relevant to my emotions (sometimes it is, but not always), I do generally feel a bit better after having worked.  This is more about my sense that I've accomplished something, not just existed for another turn around the planet, but did something that I think is contributing to the world, even if it is not yet in the world the way I wish.  On days when life can be extremely hard, it is good to have that feeling of having been involved in something that matters.  To me, creating a poem is an important act.  Engaging in my writing each day is often what makes even a rough day at least feel that it had purpose to it, or, more aptly, that I gave purpose to at least some of my day.

Looking for Him Something of me waits for him.  I look out and see him.  All that is not him, all the places where I wish he would be, they are filled by the emptiness that came when I saw the body that had once been him.

I am still having a bit of trouble getting started on my play, which is due in a week at this point. I have a few ideas, as I have mentioned, but I think that I am just going to set aside a little time on Monday and just start writing.  It may be that the play which results is not appropriate, but even if that is the case, it will be a good thing, as it will get me moving in the right direction with the work.  It is a short play, only twelve pages at the most, and that is probably too much in all reality, if we look at it in performance.  I think that aiming for between seven and ten pages is appropriate, and I am certain I can write a piece that long in a day.  So, if I don't feel the piece is right, I'll get back to work. By writing one play, though, I hope that I will get myself to the place where I am with my poetry.  While I do, of course, have poems that I write after long consideration about an idea, I am also able to just begin work, trusting that things will come. 

Changing World There was a time when I could have understood it, though it is not my way, but to go hunting now, killing nature for the sport of it in an era when the world is pained by all our kind have done already, I do not understand it.  This is besides any inability I have to appreciate the desire to see an animals life end, to know it was you who inflicted that. That, at least, I can understand: perhaps it is the only way you can see to be certain you have laid your hands upon the world, changed it permanently by your actions, leaving a mark none can erase.

Some days, it is hard for me to move away from writing about grief and about the feelings that keep returning.  That is not a bad thing, but it can feel stifling, and after writing a series of poems focused on that emotion, a desire to be able move forward often persists.  Of course, that feeling does not always reach fruition.  It is not simply a choice to turn off a certain emotional mood, or to find something on the other side of it, though one hopes that the point is to progress towards something.  Today, I had a day where I felt very mired in that kind of mode.  I was writing a great many poems that dealt with negative feelings, particularly those surrounding my sense of loss.  A few verged into other territory, but the tenor was largely the same.  I felt very much that I was stuck in those feelings, and I was not certain how I would be able to move through them.  However, I kept writing.  I did not let go of the place I was in, did not deny how I felt, but wrote about it.  Som

Find A Simple Thing that brings joy.  Any simple thing, it does not matter what.  It will not change the world, it is only a simple thing to bring joy, but times come when you need that, when even that will be more than you expected.