Would That I Might

 The year ends so soon, and I my hope has only been met with another rejection, but it is possible, I suppose, though unlikely.  I do not expect many editors to be sending responses out tomorrow, and very much doubt I will receive an acceptance, but their is a part of me that feels as if it would be the type of strange thing that might happen to me.  It is more that the reality of having a complete strikeout with my efforts this year is quite difficult to face, and it is kind of nice to put fully facing that off a tiny bit.

A Pernicious Pattern Why is it this way for me?  It seems this is not the way others find it to be, but for me, it is this way, which might be  a simple matter, if I could find out what is needed for one in my situation, one who finds it  to be this way, but all the answers and the advice assume it is the way it would be for anyone else, not the way it is for a person who finds it is the way I am finding it.

I received another rejection tonight, and I am trying to keep that as a sign that there is some hope I might get an acceptance before January, because it would mean a great deal to me to have at least one piece taken this year.  It feels quite unlikely, of course, but I have to keep hoping, I suppose, though it makes it more difficult if it does not happen.  Still, I need to maintain a belief that a change in my publishing fortunes is coming, or what am I doing?

The News Continues to be the same, days go by and there is more that arrives, but it is only more, is not new, is news but nothing that is new. There are things that are said to have changed or will be changing or have the potential to be different based on circumstances  that are said to be new, but the news itself suggests it has not happened. Maybe tomorrow, it is important to check the news tomorrow, in case anything has happened.

I am finding myself in a strange space, in terms of my creative output at the moment.  I have a lot of ideas that are clear mentally, but which I am not certain how to translate into anything tangible yet.  It is more a matter of process than anything, but I cannot deny a certain hesitancy, as though I am apprehensive about this.  I need to just push through and get to work, even without certainty or clarity, and with the awareness that my current tools and skills may not be up to the challenge.  It is the only way forward, is the path that will allow me to gain those skills, and the only chance for discovering what it is I am working towards.

It Did Not Start When You Noticed These things are not new, they have been here since too long ago for it to be clear if they ever started or were already here before any time came that could have been a start, but you never saw them, never noticed at all, were unable to be aware until other influences ended, until the space around was emptied.

 I am getting my work done early tonight, hoping to be able to get a bit more sleep than I have of late.  I do think that writing about some of this is helpful, and it is certainly better to express my feelings here then to go off ranting with Melissa, as I have done on occasion.  I am quite lucky to have someone who understands and is support,  but I can't expect her to listen to all of this, especially not when she has a great amount of stress on her own.  I also know that when I write, I am working, moving forwards, and that changes the output, the energy, the goal.  I need to transform these things, not just communicate them.

What Color Was  Schrödinger' s Cat? It is hard to say if it is one cat or two or many, because we only see  one at any time, but all the cats that roam these lands are black.  I have seen the places where kittens will lie about, and they too are all black.  How can we say one black cat that appears  only for a few moments, hesitant and distant, is not different than the one who came another day?  Or are all the black cats just one black cat in superposition?  Is it some power of the breed that one appears at times as many, as it would be in adulthood, in youth, in its most ancient days, all by turns, all at once or one at a time?  It may be, I am told what is not observed may often be quite strange, that their are ways the world is not as we expect.  Cats have been implicated, I am certain.  It only makes sense that cats would be that way.

I have been having a lot of unpleasant dreams of late.  Many of them revolve around feelings I have in relationship to some of the issues in my family, and feelings I have about home and loss.  As I have mentioned, my house where I live is under renovation right now, and, while Melissa and I are here, it feels a bit partial right now.  As well, I am still feeling quite uncomfortable with the reality that my brother is moving a few doors down, especially since my expressing my feelings about the issue resulted in my brother choosing to back a car into me.  So, I am feeling a bit out of sorts here, right now, and the issue was compounded by the sense that I was not welcomed in the home where my mother lives here in Florida, a house that I visited many times in childhood when seeing my paternal Grandparents,  who bought the house in the nineties.  It always felt like a home to me, but my experiences in the past few months have whittled away at that feeling.  I have spent a great deal of t

The Change Is No Change In the aftermath of all the upset, after they claim to see my side, to understand the harm inflicted, they speak in nicer tones, but still say all the same things.

I am glad to report that Christmas went quite well.  Most of my day was spent cooking, and it was rather early, but it was worth it to make a special holiday for Melissa.  I also managed to surprise her with a special gift when she thought I didn't have one for her.  It was a festive meal and I made the whole thing from scratch, with a salad, two sides, roast duck, and even a yule log for dessert, which I was told looked "professional."  To be honest, I am quite proud of the yule log, as I have failed at that task in the past, but nailed it this time(I will post some pics on twitter for anyone who wants to see my achievement).  Everything came out great, I think, and I feel like I did a better job of managing the tasks involved than I often do.  The time management and organizational aspects are often the hardest for me, so it took a lot of work to get a handle on that.  It was work, but definitely worth the effort.   I enjoy cooking, even when it is tiring, and enjoy eve

A Relative Improvement Things have gone better than expected, but expectations were quite low: no one believed any effort would be made, expected there to be nothing at all. That even this is an improvement, should be a sign of how it has been.

 I had another slow day. as far as my writing.  It is a lot to keep going some days, and I would love to just be calling it a night already and get to bed, especially since I am planning to do a fair amount of cooking tomorrow, to make a nice Christmas dinner for Melissa.  I spent a bit of time tonight getting some of the preparations started, but I still have a considerable amount left to do in the morning.  I am hoping that I can make it a good day for Melissa, as this year has been so strange and upsetting.  I would really like to bring her a bit of joy.

A Magician  came to sit with my friends and I in the bedroom at my parent's apartment, but my parents  were not there, but that magician was. He had glowing thumbs that plucked light from air, but not that night.  The magician was there, but he was only being a magician, was thinking and existing as what he was, even if magic was not enacted. He came and spoke, the magician was there, and he asked me what I would ask of I were granted one question  to be answered by God, and I answered, said I would ask what the ideal conversation we could be having right now.  The magician smiled and shrieked that it was a perfect question, was ideal.  He was so excited, the magician, he must have been waiting to ask it himself.

I was able to get myself motivated to write earlier today, though the amount remains close to my minimum.  I am comforted by the consideration that this minimum, while far lower than my consistent output over the past several years, my recent "slump" is still far more than at earlier periods of my life.  I do not want to go back to the times when I wasn't writing, and I am still motivated by that, even as I find myself less inspired.  The shift in perspective that has come with doing the work each day is powerful, and I am glad to have reached a point where writing matters to me in that way.

My Hands The details are not clear, or, the details are, but not the method for implementing of what is clear, the central idea itself, the shape of it, the nature of it, all that is clear, but how does it go from an idea into a thing in the world?

My writing today was still quite slow, and I know I am not feeling as motivated in that direction at the moment, but I am finding that I am having a lot of creative thoughts in other directions, which I believe will allow me to create some very interesting things.  In fact, at some point soon I might begin to start a project and document it here, but I want to get a bit of an idea of what I am doing first.  As I mentioned before, I am getting very interested in paper popup designs, which is an extension, for me, of my interest in origami.  While I had an interest in my youth, what reignited this in more recent years was a lecture by Robert J. Lang, a physicist who became fascinated with origami, applying his mathematical and scientific thinking to the field.  His work offers a proof that any form can be reproduced in paper, if one has a large enough sheet of paper.   I have begun to think of kinetic paper sculptures as fourth dimensional origami, as paper folding with a temporal dimens

I Left It Behind I walked over to this seat, just a few moments ago I was over there, but then I made a choice to get myself here, and I am certain  I had a reason, I am sure, before I arrived I had a reason to come. I hope it was not important.

I have been finding my writing quite slow the last few days.  I'm certain it will change, as I have been quite distracted with other matters.  This has been a very strange time, and some of the changes I've experienced in my own life have been drastic in ways I cannot yet cope with or even recognize fully.  I am not even able to really discuss it here in specifics, because it is a matter that involved more than me, and I do not want to divulge what has been shared with me in confidence.  I don't know what their is to say about any of it, even if I could talk more directly, besides that I am overwhelmed at present, and that I am trying to look at the positives of what is a very difficult matter.  Anyhow, I am going to hope I find some more creative energy tomorrow, that I can, perhaps, find a way to get clearer on some of this through my work.

Frog Riding All of us have thought it, have wished and wondered, imagined it being true: what if the frogs were large enough we could ride them, could hop on the back and have it hop forward to our destination, though one must worry frogs of that size would also indicate the necessary scale of insect.

 It is interesting to see that tonight, when it is also my birthday (well, was my birthday until midnight), my blog has reached eight hundred entries.  It is probably not all that unlikely, but knowing that does not change it from feeling auspicious in some way, as does the fact that I received my acceptance for workshop with Tim Seibles at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival.  It is not a surprise, as I have attended before and abticipated I would get a space in the class, not that I take the opportunity for granted or did not worry that I might not get a space.  It is never a certainty with such things.  I have been waiting for the emai to arrive, and receiving it today was very positive and affirming.  In the end, I am probably just glad to have reasons to think this birthday contains signs that the coming year will be better 

It Is Not Simple to Be Here with you, not that I do not believe there is love that exists between us, or that I do not appreciate the ways you help me, the things you do for me: I see it, and I see my part in what is wrong, what there is  I must own, but it is clear it cannot change because I want change, not even if I act in the ways I can to do what I think will make it better. I have tried, and now, it is time to come here, to be in this house again, which once I thought of as a home.

 Well, it is officially my birthday now, as of midnight, and I am hoping that the next year will be an improvement.  I feel quite strange, to be honest, as so much has happened both in my own life and in the world this year, and I am really uncertain what to expect.  I think the best thing I can do, now, is get to bed, to be honest.  I had a lot of difficulty with my writing tonight, and I am not certain if their is anything planned for tomorrow that I should be up for early.  I think I am going to use my birthday as an excuse for making this entry rather perfunctory and get off the computer for tonight. 

It Happens Now The breakthrough, the moment of inspiration, all the birds stand on the wire, line up as if wanting to be counted after hours twirling, murmurating.  The mind plays such tricks, offering the answer when it is impossible to make use of it, when it will sit, waiting (I hope it will wait), after all day thinking, all the time set aside has been used, now is when inspiration chooses, because my muse has a particular sense of humor. 

 I find it difficult to explain certain aspects of my current predicament, vis a vis publishing.  It is a problem of the conflict between my awareness of my work and the difficulties I am having.  It is reasonable for a person to assume I am making simple mistakes, not following guidelines appropriately, or otherwise assume my work to be weak or have some quality, either present or lacking, that makes sense of this universal rejection.  I would be glad to have a person point out the specific trouble, but those who know my work do not seem to find such flaws.  This makes it rather hard to get real answers, as those I ask are often assuming that it is a lack of experience or other amateurish quality, and that itself often feels rather upsetting, especially considering my experience.  I received my MFA close to fifteen years ago, I believe, and have continued to work on my craft, and I am informed about the industry, and am aware of the proper behavior for a writer.  I tend to read journa

The Home My Ancestors Built That place is gone now, or not gone: it is there, is still the same place, but what it was, the place is not that, it is not that place, it exists, but  is gone now, is not home any longer.

For a very long time I have been interested in origami, and I've worked many times on some rather advanced models.  One of my favorites is a gorilla pattern by master origami artist Akira Yoshizawa, a pattern I have folded so many times I almost know it by memory, even now, after not having practiced it in months, but which I still cannot ever seem to get just right.  I find paper to be an interesting, even magical medium for art, not only because of my love for literature and books, and the associations this brings, but also because of the complexity possible with such a simple material.  This interest, and the interest in the potentials of what can be done with something as humble as paper, is one that continues to grow and change for me.  I can spend long periods sitting and playing with a single piece of paper, attempting to see how it might be possible to do this or that. Of late, this interest has become intensified as I've begun exploring the possibilities of pop-up pape

Playing I feel wrong taking time for such wonders when there is work that is to be done, taking time to play with ideas uncertain, but others see only play, not what is beneath, and I do not know if what I seek will be found, so I doubt too, wish I were doing something real, with results, not just seeking, crafting away in hopes to make what is in my hand the same as what is already within my mind.

When I was around nine or ten years old, my father brought home an IBM XT that was being discarded from his office.  This was the first real computer I had extended access to, at least in a way that went beyond gaming.  It was the first machine I used for writing and other productive activities, and also provided me many hours of entertainment through games and other experiences. That machine was quite primitive in comparison to even the computers I had when I was just a few years older, but I still find myself longing for certain aspects of the experience I had using that machine and some of the others that followed.  FI found those machines incredibly useful for me, as a tool that I could use without feeling handicapped.  As I have expressed before, I have a great many difficulties with certain kinds of tasks, and the computers I had in my youth were designed in ways that made it easy for me to interact with them without difficulty. I believed, at the time, that the computer would al

Baking Is Precision I made a cake  from a recipe of yours I found which I thought would not be hard and dense, cracking apart before it was cut. I followed the recipe, the directions.  I mixed and beat the eggs and sugar and folded in all the dry ingredients, taking care to keep whatever air was present, not wanting to pop those tiny prisons, the bubbles  from which they wish to find an escape. I kept watch, had the temperature set, checked doneness early and pulled it  when the top had just set, soft but solid.  All of it was just right, but the cake was just not anything right, was all the wrong it could have been and I tried, I worked to make it just as it should be, though it is possible, when I think on it I used the wrong size pan.

 I am feeling quite low right now, even though I am writing and am proud of the work.  It is a combination of factors, not just my failure to get anywhere with my publishing goals this year, but also the feelings I have about my family right now.  I do not really know what to do about any of it, but I am sick of feeling that all my effort is not getting me anywhere.

Questioning My Brother's Motives The question is not why you want what you desire, but why that is the only argument for you having it, when you know, when you have known, that you choosing this would cost me my happiness in what I am unable to change, what I am committed to, what I had chosen already, but you had a choice. What does it mean your choice, choosing, insisting you must have this, when you could choose to do something else: was half your joy in depriving me of mine?

 I have had a less productive evening, but I feel good about the work that I have done.  I got distracted by a phone call from a close friend and it was nice to spend a bit of time chatting with him, and it is also good to feel comfortable being flexible with my work right now.  I think I am also recognizing that other stresses have been adding up for me, and I am just worn down a whole bunch.  It is kind of important to be able to slow down and recuperate, especially if I can do it in a way that does not feel destructive to mu work habit overall.

We Cannot Go Back to That Now It is between doing what seems right, and necessary if there is to be any fulfillment, and doing none of it, being safe, not choosing to commit because there is such fear that it is all wrong, that it will remain as wrong  asit has become.

 I am going to keep tonight short, as it is already three in the morning.  I spent a bunch of time doing creative work that is not my writing tonight.  Specifically, I was making a paper pop-up for part of a gift.  I think that working on something that is not linguistic but still creative is opening up new avenues for my thought, and this has helped to propel me forward.  It is a way of getting my mind working in new directions, and a way to connect with a more playful aspect of my creativity and imagination.  There is something very liberating about this kind of art for me, and I am finding it is translating into transformation and growth for my writing as well.

 Are You Certain You Want My Opinion? You seem so eager, sending me this survey before anything else, before any product  has arrived, or service has been rendered. You are so eager, and I wish to fulfill your desire to know what I am thinking.   Can you guess my feelings on those who have done nothing but are seeking my good word before it is earned?

 I am finding myself in a very playful mood in my writing.  I've been having a lot of interesting fun playing games, making nonsense that is intended to evoke meaningful responses.  I have been letting myself just run wild a lot more, in terms of the poems I am writing.  In some ways, I've just liberated myself from thinking through things the way I once did, and am more eager to just jump on board and take the ride.  I am also finding new ways to create work that I hope connects directly with the reader, work that is intended to inspire real responses, and which I hope will not be easily forgotten or dismissed.  I am not certain that it is what anyone thinks they want, but it would be nice to create work that is still my own, and which scratches the urges of those who can help me in my journey towards success in writing.

The Last of The Year All the days have been cowards, slinking across the earth with bellies to the ground, as though they know there is something about that wishes harm, but they are days. How can it be they are so frightened? Note the trembling, the shiver, the small pauses to check surroundings, the freezing.  Have you seen? Have you noticed it too, or is it not a thing you pay attention too? Maybe you have seen the days in different light, have not seen what I know. It may be I am wrong, am reading the wind with my nose when too much pollen has come along.  It may be I am noticing only because I wish to see the world in one way, to see a reflection of what is here, of how it has been. It has been this, has all been this. Does it seem that way or is it not the same? If it is not, if it is another way, it is only time until things change again, and maybe that will bring it to this, or maybe it will be that it has changed to be brighter, to bring dawns that glow with such a splendor no

For a while now, I have just been writing my poems, letting them happen.  I do not mean that it has been a matter I don't have an investment in, or that it is as if I haven't been doing work I am proud of, but rather that I had been allowing myself to write without pushing to get anyplace or do anything new.  I didn't have a larger sense of where to go.  This happens, of course: one enters a phase of one kind or another, and it prolongs into a mode of work for a time.  I hadn't been thinking about the kinds of poems they were or what I might be aiming towards.  Of course, that is always a temporary state, and now, I am again feeling quite enthused at new directions I am noticing in the work.  I wonder how long it will be before this new work will change too, as it must, into something new, or perhaps, just allowing me to continue on within it, until what comes next appears.

Sudden Storm on A Winter Night Now it is raining, loud clatters, the roof, the ground, everywhere from outside it is heard.  It came in a moment from silence to storm without any time, and it seems to be staying, to be here.  It hushes a bit now and then, softens for a few moments, but it is clear and steady even when it slows, and it only slows for moments, not enough anyone would notice if they were outside, I don't think.  It is here where there is not rain, here where it is only noise and not the soaking cold of being trapped in this sudden deluge, only here is there  this luxurious distance, a separation, a space in which the sound can echo, can be heard as a change that seems to matter.

Tonight is a strange night for me.  It is the birthdays of both my father, and of Thomas Lux, the professor who largely directed my life towards poetry.  The date brings up a lot of memories, many positive, but the tinge of loss is always present, will touch all that is sweet with its hint of bitter.  There are aspects of it that feel strange to me, in an uncanny, almost eerie sense, as Tom was a year older than my father and died almost exactly a year after him.  I have a great deal more that I can get into about my feelings on this, but in truth, I am not certain that I am in the place to say much more, or write a great deal on the subject.  I just feel the loss of each one tonight, and feel the combination of that.  In part, I am also remembering a larger set of circumstances, ones that led me to lose touch with Tom for many years.  Indeed, I had gone to an event where I believed he would be present just a month before his death, but he was already ill.  In large part, I had hoped t

It Has Come to You How has it arrived?  I do not know how it is you came, or how you were brought or if you chose: none of that is clear. Perhaps it is not for me, is not for me to worry why or how, or even who, though I do wonder, do wish it could be there was not one side, was not this here, but a moment from this where it was clear, where a mirror broke from the inside: I want that for us, for whoever it is you are, and whoever we would be now, together, in this moment, when you must stay away, and I must stay away, imagine this could be somehow another thing, could be felt that way, could be the tickle of my words flowing from this tongue, these lips, into you. Can they be felt, now, here or  will you only remember them that way?

My grandfather was severely hard of hearing, though not entirely deaf.  It had been a gradual loss, I gather, but had been significant through much of his life, even, he said, in childhood.  When he was older, he had reached a point where one ear had lost so much that it was not useful for it to have a hearing aid.  The other, even with the best devices of the time, could only receive less than ten percent of the normal range of hearing. He never learned to use sign language, only to read lips, and so whenever he attended any sort of live event, he would sit in the front row so he could see the faces of those speaking without anything blocking him.  I was fortunate to come from a family that enjoyed theater, and I can recall going to many shows with my grandfather.  To be honest, I am not certain how much he really followed of many of these performances, because at the time there was not, to my knowledge, a great deal of support for accommodating the hard of hearing at live events.  Th

Unlocked Doors Do you welcome us or is it only that we are allowed entry?

As someone whose disabilities are not, in general, physically apparent, I often find that their is a lack of recognition for the reality of certain issues I contend with.  Though handwriting is not my only difficulty, it is one area where this becomes quite apparent.  I've had numerous times when people will see my handwriting, recognize it as the scrawls of a child and respond adversely.  Many times I get people acting as if it is intentional laziness and just unacceptable.  I had a college professor once tell me "if you can't improve your handwriting, how can you expect anyone will ever hire you?" There is something very hard about being a writer who is distanced from the physical act of writing, even more so to feel, as I often do, that it becomes a marginalizing factor with other poets.  This was driven home to me at a poetry reading I participated in a few years back.   When the reading began, the venue's manager got up to speak for a moment and discussed the

Much Later How has it reached such a time when I was planning it to be earlier before I ended my day? There are hours that I have been through that do not seem present in my sense of the day, but I know they happened. It cannot be now if it was not once then. That is how time goes, steady forward momentum that does not shift.  But, still it does this too, even if it does not change.

I have been thinking a great deal about the issue of inclusivity within the poetry community.  In large part this is due to Jay Dolmage, whose recent tweets on this subject inspired me to share some of my own experiences and some of the issues I have encountered.  I also would be remiss if I did not mention Jillian Weise, who broadcast those original posts onto my timeline.  It is a very large issue, and I am only here starting with some small steps.  In truth, I am quite nervous about speaking about these issues, because I have had many experiences where expressing my concerns or needs became a cause for my being viewed as a trouble-maker or other-wise dismissed.  This has not always been in the poetry community, of course, but I cannot say my experiences within this realm have been out of line with the larger reality I inhabit. For me, as a person whose disabilities are primarily not apparent, I am always in the position of having to prove my needs, but this can be impossible with so

Learn The Difference Be careful of those who say this is the same as that when one is not the same as the other, but beware that it is true this is the same as that, even when this is not what that is, when this is what it is and that is what that is.  It can be true, it can be that they are the same in ways that you missed, ways that are out of the way, or that require ways of seeing that are other than your way, but it is also clear some will say there is not a difference when there is one, or there is one when there is not, or they may think you will believe this and that are the same when they do not believe it or when the reasons they think it is so are not at all true in any way, and it may still be there is some other way they are the same, but it is not that, it is a different thing. You must know first, if you do not know, cannot tell, it is impossible to be certain you can trust what it is anyone has said, even this is all lies, or not, maybe, but if I were to say it would ju

Early today my mom called to tell me that two of her closest friends are in the hospital now with Covid.  This is an older, married couple, I think in their eighties, but I am not certain.  My mother has been very concerned, of course, as are we all.  These were not people who were taking risks.  They were, from what I can tell, staying home, but they have a house-keeper or aid of some kind and it seems that person brought the virus into their home.  At present, we don't really know anything about their condition.  I know my mother spoke to the husband on the phone after they were admitted, but she doesn't know if either of them are on oxygen or if the wife has been intubated.  We knew she had been sick, outside the hospital, but had not heard that he contracted it.  At some point earlier today, or it may have been last night, the two of them were at home and could not stand up at all.  They called one of their children who is a doctor and were told to call for an ambulance imm

The New Generation You are upset at a loss of entertainment, the withholding of the new hot thing that is sold out now, that was gone before it even existed.  You have tried for so long to get it, and you think this is bad, is a thing worth a complaint, because you cannot get the exciting new console, cannot play those games with even better graphics and better processing or whatever it is they do to make certain people spend more each time to buy the new iteration, all because of this stupid pandemic and trade issues, and other things, which are causing other problems, not just a lack of consoles, but other problems too that do not mean you won't have another machine for playing games that is a bit better than the one  you probably used today.

In large part, my computer serves as a prosthetic for me.  As I have mentioned before on this blog, I am severely disgraphic, which means that writing by hand is actually a painful, slow, and difficult process for me.  As a bonus, what I write is mostly illegible and looks like the scribbles of a young child first learning to write, but that is almost a seperate issue for me.  The point is that my computer allows me to easily write.  Using my phone can work as well, but is far more difficult for me, and often frustrating.  My computer is an essential tool for me, and has been since I was quite young.  Indeed, back in the early nineties when I was in high school, the school insisted I have a laptop to use in class and for all my assignments.  This was when laptops were quite new, expensive, and also heavy.  My first weighed close to ten pounds, as I recall. Anyway, I rely on my computer to be able to write.  I can make due without it, but it is making due.  I do not have the same capaci

Tamed And Conquered This place was all the swamp but the swamp is far west now, or mostly far west.  There are bits, it may even want to return, but it has been taken and owned, it has no choices any longer, is the servant.  Those before us might have spoken with it, heard it, but that is not the way, it is to be held, to be owned, cultivated, changed for us. It knows.  It is not as if the world can speak back, act when we do not listen, no, that is silly.  We know better. What we do is best, will bring the best, always.  It is not a concern, will never be our harm or undoing.  

Early today, my friend and collaborator Freesia McKee asked me why I write poems.  The question was asked in the proper spirit, to be clear, as can be hard to do with such a simple, yet deep inquiry, and my answer was rather vague, and involved acknowledged circularity.  But, as I have considered it more, I am finding that it is connecting to a great many things in my thinking right now, both in terms of my own approach to writing, and in terms of my life and history, and the intersections of these things. I think that one aspect of the answer roots in my fascination with language, which is, at least in part, a result of my difficulties in learning to read.  I know that even before I read, I had a mind for language in many ways.  A friend of mine's mother, when I was struggling with basic literacy skills in first grade, commented that I couldn't be that dumb as I had the best vocabulary of any children she knew my age.  I bring this up because I do not really know if I am proje

Understand Your Bargains We did come here by choice.  It was chosen to join this, to be a part, to sit here at this table and eat this food, and to share in the work that this place does, to do it the way it is done here, and that was chosen, was what we decided would be best, and it is better, is the better option than what had been, out there, with nothing, with no one who wants to give or share, who thinks what is offered is ever enough  to earn more than too little, that is what was out there, and it is better, is not quite that way here, it is another way, where there is just enough if things are done in the way others want, if we do not try to be who we are, than we can have just enough.

 I am still feeling a lack of motivation much of the time right now.  Some of this is situational, as I do not have access to my office right at the moment, and that is a hindrance.  At the same time as that is the truth, in terms of the facts, I know that if I felt a deeper drive right now, it would be a small obstacle.  I have written in far less hospitable circumstances.  It is a matter of my current mental state, of the mood I have been in.  Many things have come together for me, in ways that have me feeling quite a bit of despair and hopelessness.  I want to believe it is temporary, that things are bound to get better, but it is not easy to have that faith.  I am still writing each day, though, which must be a sign of something positive that remains within, some sense that it is all still worth the effort.  

I Should Know By Now It turns wrong, but always it must seem well first, there must be a promise of good to come, and it must be trusted, must seem real, solid as this chair, the one beneath me as these words arise, must be real.  It always seems so real, but the moment comes, the promised moment, the fulfillment, and then? Sorry, I lost my place when I fell to the floor, and my chair  seems to have vanished.

This year has not been a good one in so many ways, and that is a truth that most people seem to be in agreement about.  For me, one aspect that has been most frustrating has been my inability to get any of my work published.  It is not the fact, alone, of those rejections, but the strange combination of having this unmitigated negative response, while also being told that my work is good by people who should know.  I am also aware of the reality that I did not act when I was younger, and I recognize, at this point, why it was impossible for me at that time in my life.  Now that I am doing the work, though, I am not in the same situation, with the same kind of access and opportunity.  As the year winds down, I have sent out well over a hundred submissions, most to journals but, also, chapbook manuscripts.  About seventy have come back at this point, all rejections, so it may be silly, but I am still holding out a bit of hope that this streak will end before the year is out.

I Do Not Often Think of It I keep it away, in a back shelf in some room  I never visit even to dust. I do not think about it very much, not even enough to name it, not enough to be certain, only there is some calling, a voice drifting from a hallway, almost too soft to hear, nothing of what it sings is words, the tune is even muffled, and I do not know how I have even noticed it, but I think I have before, once, maybe.  I would go, seek it, find where it rises from, but I am afraid: it is so soft, if I move from where I am, will I hear it still, and if I cannot hear it will it be forgotten again?

 I was reading some discussions about video games as storytelling devices, and one thing that I began to consider was the question of why writing is not often seen as interactive in a deeper sense.  I acknowledge it is not, in traditional form, responsive to the reader in the same way as most would think essential for interactivity, but a piece of writing is capable of being interactive with a reader in very deep ways.  This is a core concept, for me, in how I consider my writing.  My goal in creating in piece of writing is to craft an experience that is not the writing itself, but the response inside those receiving that piece of writing.  In some sense, it is the way a playwright is not creating the play, but a blueprint for the creation of a piece in performance.  I am crafting words as a way to create a response for the reader.  Now, if I am smart, and I am able to create aspects.of that experience that feel immediate and relevant to the reader, and I create a connection with them,

The Visitor Answers It is silent, but there he is, in the corner, sitting as though he has been here, been waiting, quiet, until he was noticed. "Who are you, and how Are you here...to how did you get in, I mean?" : "Those are not important matters. Well, that is not true, as it does matter quite a bit who it is that I am, at least to me, but it is not relevant. That is better, as a term, since the methods I utilize in gaining access do matter, as well, to me, you understand?" A slight bow, the small man, head shiny bald, looks up again. "Do you have better questions? Because that is what you will need." "What is this?"  He looks sharp, "A bit too broad, but closer." "Why are you here?" "To answer the right questions. But not the wrong ones.  Never the wrong ones." "Why didn't you announce yourself?" "Patience.  I am quite patient." And it is true.  It is quite true, all this time, still askin

 I have had a rather upsetting day, though it is difficult for me to get into the specifics at the moment.  Suffice it to say, there are some major changes coming in my life, which are very disruptive and difficult to accept in emotional terms, but are also necessary and have real, practical advantages that need to be considered.  I am somewhat resigned to what us happening, though it hurts me deeply and will cause me a good deal of long term heartache.  I am dealing with the reality of the situation, and considering the reality surrounding all of this.  In many ways, that feels quite cold and calculating, but the truth is, what is happening is devestating in ways that will haunt for life, and which will reach back to what I remember from my past to tarnish, or at least alter, much of that as well.  I am not prepared to deal with all of that at this moment, so instead I am considering the positives that I can find.