Would That I Might

I have already commented upon the difficulties I have been facing this week, though not in specific.  Really, the details are not important to my work here, but what does matter is the way that my life can either feed or drain my creativity.  In some ways, negative emotions can be a good source for work.  Attempting to move through things, to express ideas in an effort to understand, grow and change, but it is also easy for those same emotions to lead to work that is self-pitying and trite, or for the desire to create any work to become distant in response.  It is this last which has been my most common difficulty this week, though I have caught myself writing a few pieces that express my own frustrations and might be seen as falling in that category of trite complaining that has, at best, the function of unloading the negativity, and at worst winds it up instead, building its power through continuing to focus upon a perceived wrong.  I hope that some of the poems I have written respon

Necessary Action We spend time doing what is right though it is not what we want to do, but we do it because we must: there is no choice, not now, but we will do anything to stop, though it will mean all we have done was only a gesture, will have no lasting impact, because we only did as much as we had to to say we acted, we did not want to do even that much.

One of the hardest parts of keeping up my work right now is just getting into a creative mental state.  I know that if I refuse to give up on my work, I will eventually force myself to write.  In a sense, it is like I am in a battle of wills with my own creativity, or whatever it would best be called, and if I keep at it, refuse to give in, it will emerge.  This works, but it can take a long time and I would like to discover a way that allows me to get done a bit earlier in the evening.

I Keep Expecting The Cat to walk up out of the dark as if he had come with me to sit here tonight, even though I know he is gone, have stood besides the box of ashes just a few minutes ago.

I wrote my poems this morning, but I still had difficulty getting my work done tonight.  I found the work slow and had quite a bit of difficulty thinking of what to write.  I have found myself venturing beyond the same few coronavirus related ideas, though everything is affected by this reality.  I think, though the work is at times slow, I am finding new ideas, ways to move beyond where I had fel

The Little Cat that comes at night to the yard sat regarding me, as though perhaps he would consider trusting a human. I would like to be its friend, but there are good reasons for it to be skeptical.

Some days, when things are particularly difficult in my personal life, I find it can be hard to get myself writing.  I feel conflicted about the work, in some ways, at those times, I think, in that it can be so hard to find a way to express the particular qualities of a strong emotion, which is a challenge worthy of the work, but one that often feels impossible when trapped within the experience of those kinds of strong emotion.  As well, I often want to write to escape those feelings, but cannot do that either.  In the end, I do what I did tonight, and allow my sense of obligation to force me to keep at it until I succeed, even if that requires w

I Recall Those Places We called them, what, it was a long word, foreign sounding, if I remember, something with an "r", but we were do dating, picking up utensils that had been placed by unknown hands, sitting in those rooms, small, crowded tables. It seems impossible we ever lived that way.

I did get up and write this morning, though I did not do all the work I had intended.  Still, I made up for the rest and am done fairly early tonight.  I think that getting myself to bed at a more reasonable hour will be good, I can begin my day earlier and get my work done first thing.  In many regards it has been a frustrating and draining day, so I think it will be good to get to sleep.

Ironic Proof I express my sadness, my desire for better between us.  I want to be closer, want us to communicate better, to grow closer, that is what I tell you, and it makes you angry that I do not think our relationship is already perfect.

Well, I again messed up my writing today, not doing my work in the usual time this morning, and again made up the missing work.  I cannot fall back into this habit. I will write tomorrow morning, as I do most days and have for so long.  I know the things that often stop me, which, if I am honest are mostly connected to Ulysses, our cat, and I want to overcome the block that at times has wmerged.

Lost Opportunity It would not have worked out, did not work out, but I had a hope it might, had kept my heart open, but circumstances changed, even if what had been barring me were gone, the options I had are no longer present.

I didn't get my work done this morning, so I spent a long while tonight writing in order to make up for my missed session.  I am quite worn out, as today was a bit difficult.  I won't get into it, but it was an upsetting day, and it took a lot for me to get myself to do my work.  I was close to just going to bed without finishing at one point, but I thought better of it and for back to work instead.  I wish it had not been this way,  but I am still glad to know I maintain this level of resolve.

Unresolved On some days it feels as though the doors have closed, the paths are blocked, there is no place to go.  But, this is not a good place to stay, it is not acceptable to be here, though everywhere else is barred.

I increased the quota, so to speak, of poems in my morning writing session to seven.  I find it useful to push myself to write more, but I wonder at it, much of the time, as I am aware that more is not always better   To me the real answer is that each poem is an opportunity.  I know that they will not all be good, that the more I write the more terrible poems will result, but I also know that each time I write any poem it is possible that one will achieve something real. 

It Will End there will be days that come after this, though it is not clear when those days will be here, and hard to imagine what the thoughts will be, looking back, remembering it, seeing it all as the past.

I have a great many poems which I have submitted to journals lately.  I am waiting on more than twenty responses, right now, and I am hopeful that some of that work will make be accepted.  I was speaking about this with Freesia earlier today, actually, discussing the idea that even just a few acceptances out of all those submissions would be bolstering.  I know the challenges, and I recognize that getting one poem out of ten accepted is a win.  Yet, I still feel it when I get a rejection, as I did this afternoon.  It is a minor thing, really, just one of the many pieces I have sent out.  But, it putting work out is a vulnerable act.  It must be, if the work matters at all.

Out Late It was so hot today, but tonight, it has cooled enough that sitting outside is pleasant.  It is darker tonight, the black is thicker, I cannot see stars, or the lights of other houses. It is late, I should go inside, get to bed, but the night, the cool, dark night, I do not know why sitting here, sitting with the night, is so fulfilling.

I seem to have been able to get my work done a bit early tonight, which has been my intent for the last several days.  I am going to keep this short so I can get to bed early, but I do want to say that I think I did some good work tonight.  In many ways, that is less about the quality of the work itself, which always find difficult to address, and more to do with the kind of exploration and discove

Still Strange It has been this long but it still does not seem as if this can be life. It is, has been this way long enough it should feel normal, but it remains alien, as though the world is waiting, but I am not certain what comes next will be good, or that this will be done and over.

I often feel that I am writing the same poem again and again, which is not a strange thing for a poet, but it feels intensified by the current crisis.  It would be easy to feel that is just reiteration, that I don't have anything to say, and it may be so.  It is difficult to know what to say, what can be said that is worth saying right now.  But, the only point, the reason, I am stuck with these ideas is because there is something still unsaid, some idea that has not yet been expressed.  It may even be that I am not entirely aware of it, that I will discover it through future work, or it may be about honing the words, making it clear.  It may not be new each time, but it is still moving towards something new.

I Tried to Read a novel, one that has waited on my shelves for me to find the time for it, and I read, but it is as if my eyes just looked at the words, I heard them as a lecture from the front of a room, while I could not listen, no concentration. I could not let go, even wanting to escape felt wrong.

Another late night.  It is easy to slip into an odd schedule with no need to go out or anything, but I know it is not great to do for s lot of reasons.  I am glad to know I am committed enough to my work that I am willing to stay up to finish it, but I want to find a way to shift my schedule back towards ending my evenings a bit earlier.

The Black Cat that appeared on the night before Ulysses died was here in my yard again tonight, and I can't help but worry it is an omen, of course, it is easy to feel that fear right now.

It is strange considering that this is the six hundredth entry I have made in this journal.  It has not been a ma nor part of my life, but it has been part of it now for nearing two years, at this point, and writing it has definitely been a major driver of my other work.  In the time I have kept this blog, I have written far more than I had in the decade preceding this period, and it is a very strange feeling considering the amount of time I have been at this.  These days, of course, there is the added level of having a place to discuss my experiences as a writer at this time, which has been important for me, in terms of keeping motivated and in being able to accept my current work, whatever it may be.  I am glad to have this journal and intend to keep at it for a long time to come.

What Is Imbalanced will not stay that way, did not stay where it was, has toppled and spilled. It might  have been righted before this crash, but, here we are.

Clearly, I did not succeed in getting my work done earlier in the evening, but I hope tomorrow may be better.  I am finding it going very slow, and I am often needing to rest a bit.  It is processing all of this, attempting to make something from these experiences.  I think it is important, even if only in terms of my own ability to handle this, but it does not make it easier accepting in my dedication to the task.

Checking In I speak with a friend, we both describe our condition as "surviving" and mean it. We are both alive, are not sick, have been lucky. We only speak enough to wish we both make it.

Once again, it is quite late, and I am inclined to keep this short so I can call it a night.  I want to get myself to bed earlier, so I need to find a way to change up my work habits some.  I will have to think about that, but I am hoping to be able to adjust.

Sleepless Night I could not sleep even before, but this is not the same, the sleepless nights, it is still quiet, is dark, but the night does not feel full and empty in the way it did on older nights.

I am a bit at odds in terms of some of my poems.  I have been writing, as those who read this blog with any consistency will know, a great deal over the past year or so, and I have been working to publish that work.  Now, this has been a slow effort, and I admit that I am not yet seeing many positive results, but I have a great deal of work out right now and am hopeful.  However, the truth is that I am uncertain what is truly relevant now.  So much of what I have written may need to wait until things are not so single minded as we must be in this time.  I don't know, perhaps that is a projection, yet I have to wonder about it.  I am, of course, writing now, but I do not know how much of my work at the moment stands, and am certain much of it would need various forms of revision and editing.

Keeping Time Which day of which week is it?  How many have we been here, and how many days will it be?  No, not days, weeks or maybe months? It is the middle of the week.  I am almost certain, but I will be sure if Jeopardy comes on.

It has been another day of this strange existence, and I am keeping to my work.  I am trying to see ways to create poems that feel genuine to my work, and I do occasionally succeed.  While I don't yet have a grasp on my larger thoughts about how to write about the coronavirus in a larger sense, I do have some strategies that I think I can incorporate into my thinking about this, though I am not yet able to clearly articulate even those yet.  I do feel I am finding a way to create despite how I often feel when considering that possibility.

Grocery Trip It is so many days since we have been marketing, I do not want to go out, the risk of just a trip to the market, I am afraid to go, and none of the stores have delivery available, it is full, always. But we are at the point of wondering what to cook, of you longing for meals we cannot make, me looking at recipes wondering which can be modified to use our pantry staples. We will have to go, of course, the beans are gone now, the spaghetti, of we have even a noodle, would be dry. Let us find our masks and our courage.

I am going to keep tonight short   I am tired, but I did get my writing completed.  I have been keeping myself away from then news for the most part, which is making me feel a bit guilty, but seemed necessary for my own welfare.

The Course Each morning, they bring out the equipment to maintain the golf course, although no one can play now. How many months will it be until anyone can tee-off again?  It stands, though, will be kept in shape, through these months of quarantine, a promise to the ones who play that game that what they cherish will still stand even after this.

I am writing sixteen poems a day now, which is mainly just a way of forcing myself to do enough work daily that I will probably write something of merit.  So much of this work is just keeping forward motion, which is not always easy, and especially not so now, when despair seems so easy.  It is far simpler to be driven to write more by the habit of it, instead of choosing to do the work each day, if I am honest.  But, doing 4he work itself still feels significant, even if I only begin because I feel obligated by the fact that I have been doing this work daily for so long and do not want to betray that effort.  Once I have begun, it is different.  I do the work out of habit and a sense of continuing what I am committed to, but doing the work becomes something that helps sustain me.

The World Without My Father The world has changed so in the years since my father's death. It is not so many years, but somehow, he died and the world turned. It was before so much, before things turned. And now, the virus, the world turns again. The day we started to isolate was his fourth Yahrzeit.

I think that I am beginning to put together some ideas that are larger than those I have found occupying many of my poems. In some ways, this has to do with formulating a metaphorical framework to discuss what is happening in the world.  It is about developing tools that will let me process my thoughts into something I feel capable of communicating, and for me as I have said before, that is largely about myth.  I have an understanding of the overall structure, the shape of the story, but am still not certain about the specific way to implement this general concept.  The ideas are percolating, and much is already clear, so I think it won't be too long before I am able to get to work on this more directly.

The Sounds at Night seem the same for a moment, all the chirping and whirring, it seems unchanged, but listening, it becomes clear, the volume of it, uninterrupted tonight, the sounds of the road are gone, it may be louder too, or it may only be the absence.

I have done well in keeping to my work, and I do believe that will lead me forward, but that does not change the experience I have writing at the moment.  I do have times when I find an idea that I feel somewhat compelled by, but those poems are the minority right now.  It is not easy to keep at it, considering how bleak things are and how impossible I find it to write about anything that is not related to the pandemic.  I keep going, though, and I think that is the best I can do.

Negotiating Fears I understand that there are needs and fears involved, that they have been raised once more by this isolation, this seclusion, staying home each day. It is not easy for anyone, but I know there is more. Still, we must find a way to get beyond that unless we are willing to risk our death.

I am not certain if writing serves to release the built up emotions and responses to the world that imbue them of late, or if they become a crucible to distill them or perhaps, even, a lightening rod, prodding me to attract more.  It is not really a question I can truly answer, and I think what is more significant is whether the work is a transformation of those ingredients.  My focus remains centered on doing the work, and I try to allow it to evolve naturally, but that is only because I believe that just the act of pursuing my writing will force me to develop, to deepen my understanding of what is in my work, that the act of writing, and in particular writing poetry, is itself transformative, despite the intent I may bring to a specific piece.  Even if I am only writing to release something, what results will not be what I intended, will bring more to the original impetus than I expected.

That Will Not Help It will do nothing, there is nothing to be done that will help. It is how it is, we have no answers or solutions, we can only take the precautions we know can slow it, that is all, but is a lot, in the face of this, when no one has answers or cures.

Though I am still struggling with my writing, I am still pushing myself.  I believe that the act of keeping myself moving forward itself can help pull me through my difficulties.  At some points, I do feel that I am breaking through to something more, and I have certain ideas for work I want to be writing, though it is not yet clear, and the best way to get myself more and more in that space is by pressing forward with my work, even when it means writing so much that is just spinning my wheels.

Still Trying It is never clear how to begin any longer, but it is always necessary to continue, even now, when it is all so impossible, can never be made into anything, when even the idea of making beauty seems to insult the current reality.

Most mornings of late, I have gotten to work almost straight out of bed.  This is not merely a matter of habit, but also gives me access to a different part of my mind.  Being so close to sleep, my mind is often freer in some way, as if I still have access to the reservoisnof my dreaming mind.  What signals true, though, is that, if I am distracted or otherwise neglect that work, as I did this morning, it often leaves my thoughts entirely through most of the day.  Today, it was not until this evening that I got to work.  I did make up for the unwritten poems, but I know it is important I get the work done when I wake up tomorrow.

No Return What was, the world as I knew it, it is not the one that will come when this ends:when we return to normal, it will not be a return, what has occurred already has severed the future from that past.

Though I am not yet reaching what I am hoping to, I feel that my work has opened up a bit.  I am finding a bit more of my humor sneaking back in, and I can feel, as well, the reemergence of other qualities that might not have been as present of late.  I think it is a matter of my adjusting to writing about the current crisis.

Sick Tiger When I hear of the tiger in New York that has tested positive for the coronavirus, I think of Ulysses, my fears for Melissa, for me, our families, everyone, it is compounded for a moment as I think of him, worry, though he is already gone, and was never quite a tiger.

I am beginning to consider more specifically the question of how to view the current crisis through a lens of myth.  That may not entirely capture what I am intending to communicate, but to me, myth is a universal tool, a way of seeing the events in a metaphorical context, creating different opportunities for understanding.  In part, it is an effort to give meaning, not in the sense of making meaning out of this, but in terms of contextualizing it for myself.  I do have, at this point, an idea for what I am considering, but I am not yet certain about it.  I think there is a level at which I am not entirely comfortable yet with some aspect of this.  It is so fresh and raw, and I do not want to push myself back from the reality by crafting an artifact around it.  That is a danger, though it is the opposite of my actual intent.

Necessary Outings It is hard, balancing between what must be done and the danger of doing it. The risk of touching the world, of breathing the air of other bodies, it is dangerous, but there is still what must be done that cannot happen in this place.

I have spoken many times, by now, of the challenges I have had writing during this pandemic.  On one hand, it is important to write in spite of these events, but it is also impossible to do anything genuine without confronting the reality that this is the world right now.  To ignore the pandemic would be to produce work that was not only irrelevant, but so detached from reality as  have no real meaning or value.  Of course, I can write about my current experiences, but that does not seem, in general, to produce work of real value.  For one thing, much of what I am writing is likely not beyond the thoughts and obsessions of any person today.  I do not know the value of such work, and it is also not really the work I want to be doing, if I am honest. How do I, then, find a way to create genuine work that is based in the current reality but not overwhelmed by it?  It sounds very silly to say how do I make this into art, but that is essentially it, I think.  For me, the more specific que

The Small World of This House is large enough for now.  It must be.  I must know it is, believe it will remain large enough, for the ever longer time it will be more than just a home, but the only place to be, the only place to be if I care about ending this crisis, though it is clear it will not end at all soon.

I am doing what I can to keep myself on track right now, in spite of the coronavirus.  While that is largely about the writing itself, the effort to get work published.  I spent time today sending out a number of packets to various magazines.  I don't know, right now, what that will mean, but I need to send out work.  It is as much about remaining focused on things that matter to me beyond this moment in trying to stay connected to that despite the crisis we are in the midst of.

She Is Waiting for me to finish my writing tonight.  She is in bed already, but I am still here writing.  Tonight is a slow night, I cannot find anything worth putting into a poem. There is too much that matters too much, I do not know how to write it.  I should just go to her, not keep writing.  I can at least comfort her, tonight when dreams about the virus return.

One of the questions that I keep facing, each day of late, and which I know I have already spoken of here, but it remains the big question: how to continue as a writer now, with things as they are.  It feels, on one hand, almost silly, or, at least, besides the point.  A poem will not matter in the pandemic.  It just won't.  But, at the same time, not allowing the virus to take even that from me feels a valid, even important, response.  It is an affirmation in the face of the existential threat of the coronavirus.   But, I still have to discover, for myself, what it means to be writing now, in this time.  I cannot turn my gaze from the world, but it is also hard to know just what there is to say at such a time.  I have to hope that by keeping to my work, I will discover those answers.

We Learn Each Day how it is out in the world.  It is not well, nothing has changed for the better, yet, though it may be beginning to change. It will be slow, long, there will not be a break from this.  It will not let up.  All that we can do is stay home. It seems wrong, but it is still what we must do, is the only choice. How can it be we have come to a place where we must save ourselves this way?