Would That I Might

I received the first response for my most recent chapbook manuscript, which was a rejection.  It feels significant, and the timing, as I am beginning work on a longer collection, adds to it, but I need to allow myself to let go of that.  The truth is that I am hurting.  I feel, quite often, that the efforts I make to improve my life and move towards my goals are stagnant, and I cannot find anyone to offer real solutions.  This is not only in terms of my writing, but that is a major example for me.  I need to find a way forward, and getting work published would feel like a real step in that direction.  

Tree I do not have any fruit growing in my yard. I had hoped I would, had thought to plant trees, but that was when I thought this would be home for the future.  I do not want to plant a tree in this yard, I do not want to plant it knowing I will leave it behind.

 It is difficult for me to write about things without disguising it, most of the time.  I have been working to be more direct, and to reveal more, even when it may frighten me.  The poem I posted tonight, whatever it may or may not be artistically, was a step in that direction, for me, I think, and I am glad for it, though it may seem minor to most people.  I know it might hurt someone I love, and that scares me, but I hope, if it is read by my brother, or others in my family who it impacts, that it can be seen as me processing and expressing things I do not feel safe stating to them, and that it might be healthier if we could work on having a more honest relationship.  Of course, the real thing is my fear that it could cause harm, but their is already much that has been damaged, and I want to feel free to, at least, write about my experiences in the world.

My Brother's Closing Was Yesterday I am told to offer congratulations, to say something to you now that you have arrived. It is done, now, you have completed what I asked you not to start before it was ever even a notion, and now I am asked to congratulate you, told I was  wrong to have not yet said congratulations, so congratulations, congratulations for what you have done, congratulations you have stabbed through my heart.

I had a very productive conversation with Freesia McKee this morning in which we began to focus on ideas for the manuscript I have been discussing.  I feel quite fortunate to have a person I trust to work with on this project, and it is particularly helpful at this stage, since I am wanting to discuss these ideas, but don't want to do so in a way that is not focused towards the goal itself.  It can be tempting to just talk about a project of this sort, and that can feel like a natural way to organize the ideas, but it can be a trap, as the impulse to create the work is often driven by the desire to communicate the core idea.  In talking with a person who is external to the project, that energy can be dissipated, but because I have a collaborator, I can discuss these ideas in a way that is constructive and builds that energy.  That I trust Freesia and am excited for her contributions to the project are of even greater value, and I feel that our conversation today was incredibly help

Sun, I Know You Will Return I am glad for the company that the moon provides while you are away, but it is not the same, the moon is not brilliant as you are; the world is dark, grows cold without you. The morning will come, I know it is coming, but it is not so soon I cannot miss you.

 There is a split, right now, for me as I consider my writing.  On one hand, as I have expressed, I feel that I am making a lot of progress and working towards important creative goals, both in my process and in work I am attempting.  I feel a sense of growing and gaining in my own creative power. At the same time, I am also feeling quite dejected about my current experiences with publishing.  I have more than ninety rejections on my submittable page at the moment, without any acceptances.  I cannot help feeling that hundredth rejection looming, as though it is important.  I know that is in my mind, but I also do not feel I can see that without feeling that it must reflect something real.  I don't want to allow this to derail me, but it eats at me, even as I know I am working to create something that will succeed, the feeling that I am failing does not relent.

Invited The doors were open, held wide apart  to allow easy access so anyone might enter, anyone who wanted to was allowed inside, and the walls swelled with those great crowds, but now, they have entered, now they will not leave, you have let them come, have let so many come within, and you always knew who it was you had welcomed, had encouraged  endorsed, enabled.  You knew who it was you were allowing inside, you must have known.  It filled your home, each wall was caked in it, each room crowded by those who brought it. Did you think it could be cleaned away?

I spent a good deal of time today contemplating the ideas I have for a full length manuscript.  I feel that a longer work can allow me an opportunity to teach a reader how to explore the work, offer them opportunities for discovering what has been places before them.  The key is doing so in a way that is enticing and exciting, that is fulfilling to the reader.  In many ways, this is not often the approach I see in poetry books, and I think many poets do not consider this aspect of the work in the ways I am.  In most cases, a book of poetry is either a single work, constructed of poems that are intrinsically linked, or it is a collection of various pieces that may not be connected, other than by authorship.  These approaches are not the total of what exists, of course, but the majority of the books I encounter seem constructed on these lines.  To me, those are fine ways to put a book together.  I have a number of shorter manuscripts that are an assortment of collected work, and I have w

The Bird Flew at The Sun It seemed to fly at the sun beak pointing ever forward straight into the sky's fiery heart, never resting.  How could it never stop, never rest?  How could it fly this way? Always flying on, at the sun, beak pointed at the sun, blazing with the glow.  But never closer, always, it flew at the sun, never resting, maybe still, I do not know any longer, I stopped following so long ago, but it was still flying towards the sun, though it could not know the distance, could not tell it would never arrive, that the horizon always has another waiting behind it, another it will become, another, just the same as all those already flown by unnoticed, all that is below, all that might be found, all that can be reached, but it flew always at the sun, that bird. It would not he satisfied with the world, had to have what it could not reach.

I want to begin work on collecting a full volume of my poetry.  The amount of work I have written, I could create several large books, but I am not, at the moment, interested in doing something all encompassing, or even attempt a single volume work of great scale.  Instead, I want to focus on a shorter volume of the more typical length, around one hundred pages, or even less.  This may seem, in some ways, to be a turn from my comments of the past few days, about needing to be more vulnerable in my work, but I think the process of curating work and creating a collection is actually a process that I can use in that effort.  In creating my last chapbook manuscript with Freesia McKee, I found that I was able to bring the work together in a way that opened it up.  A context was created by bringing together various pieces into an assembled whole, allowing the poems to gain meaning through their interactions.  As well, that context provided me a lens for revision, and the result is a piece th

We Saw The Oldest Olive Trees in North America Someone was told they were in a nearby town, that we could visit them, so we went, me and a few others, one weekend, to see the bone-trunks reaching up, fleshless hands grasping sky. Twenty years later, I saw the woman who led the outing, She had been old, already.  I asked her if she remembered those trees.  She told me  of them, her hands twisted, echoed their form. She was old, but remembered the trees. I was a stranger.

I am working to be more vulnerable in my writing, and a part of that is learning to be straightforward.  It is difficult to reveal oneself, even on a piece of paper that need not ever be read, but I know that I am getting there.  I've been attempting to give myself exercises to push forwards, and I think I am finding a way forward, though it is slow and strange.  At the moment, I recognize that the shift I am seeking hasn't occurred, and much of what I am writing still curves around the point, but I am pushing towards the center, and I trust that I will find my way there, so long as I continue the effort.

I Hear The Banging but cannot tell who is beating those drums: not just an echo, but the pulsing itself, a steady anger that shake the world, everything carries it, is infected, takes up more of it.  Where did it start?  It is here now, is there already, too; the start is hidden, but, still, it is here now. What does the beginning matter in a world so stirred?

I am in a phase of transition, I think, with my writing, and I think I am getting to the place where I can start reaching the important things I want to be able to express.   I am recognizing an absence in my work, though it is hard to acknowledge, but I can see now, in a new way, the things I did so often that were attempts to hide, or be clever instead of straightforward.  I have a great deal of craftsmanship in my work, I know, but I have also been protecting myself in some ways by allowing that capacity for artistry toto serve as a screen, or perhaps a shield.  I am gaining strength in terms of being more open and honest in the work, in ways that I had not been aware of before, and I feel ready to push forward to another level with my work as a result.  In some ways, it makes me feel that I am only beginning to even be able to start the real work.

A Forgotten Voice Was Called I do not have a song for you tonight, though it is dark enough that I consider rising from these ruins, walking out from this place of abandonment this forgotten land. It is my choice, being here, not allowing memory to stir, not risking the fragile ground, the brittle, hollow land that rests beneath my feet. I have no song tonight,  not even with the moonless and starless sky, when I know it is silent, empty, that all who are of the world would never notice.  Not tonight. I cannot sing tonight, though it would be good to be asked again, to be asked and asked.  That would be good, but I will not sing tonight.

Today was the last day of my workshop with Tim Seibles, and I feel very recharged by the entirety of my experience at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival, though it was limited to an online event by the circumstances.  The week brought me many insights, and inspired me to push myself in more specific ways, to aim my work with greater consideration, as well as offering me tools for practicing and honing aspects of the work.  I feel, as well, that I see the landscape of my work in a new way, not only in terms of what I know is there, but in terms of what I am not doing and what I want to focus on improving.  I also feel ready to go deeper, and prepared to take myself in those directions in emotional and practical terms.  I think that working at such extremes of emotion, with elegies one day and odes the next, helped to realign some of my awareness of my work.  I know there is much more to be done, and I can feel part of myself stepping out from the shadows, though I still feel a reticence in

To An Inner Silence When the cold first bloomed into frost upon the surface, I worried for you, but I see it is only a shell, that beneath is still as it was, and you remain, but I hope for the thaw to come, hope again to meet you when it is again warm and we each may go through that surface once more.

Odes have been a challenge for me.  I am finding my way, but the mode of praise is one I need to inhabit more.  I am recognizing that this is also to do with a need for a certain kind of straight forwardness.  I am learning a great deal about ways that I hide, the ways I use cleverness to step away and hold back.  I am so often in my head, and it is time to let the work also have my body.

Memoriam  The thread snaps, what was red darkens, the carried man falls into the low fog, custard thick: it swallow him, takes him.  The thread was stretched tight, sounded with each pluck, but it has snapped, can no longer sing except in echoes, but the fog has come already, cannot be driven off again without ferrying away all but the memory of the one who fell, who has been consumed, has turned to white whisps, has become one with what is passed. bu

I am feeling very positive about the work I have been doing this week.  I've been working to pay attention to the aspects of the work that Nickole brought to my mind in our conference, of course, but I am finding the writing exercises in class to be really engaging.  It has been difficult work, especially the work last night and tonight, which has focused on elegies.  Some of the places it requires going emotionally are difficult, so, while there is material that comes, it can be very depleting.  I am very excited that we will be moving towards odes next.  I think that kind of positive direction is one that I need to explore more.  I am very excited to connect with those feelings of praise and joy.

It Took More Time Than I Had Expected and now it is late, and I am here not even finished with what must be done, and I know it is my own fault, I could have started sooner, could have been smart enough to think, "it may take longer than you are expecting," but I did not.  I waited to start, sat around, did nothing that would matter as much, just let my thumbs do all the fiddling they could want, and did not think  it would matter at all, but now it is late, now I am here still while the clock rolls to the next hour, that big hand feels heavy now, has reached the point where it does not rise  but begins to fall, and I feel it on me, the weight as it drops, and I could have started when there were hours left in the day, but I chose to wait, and now I am so tired.  But still, I cannot be certain the results would have been even half as good if I had rushed or started before I knew I was ready.

Four years ago, when the last inauguration occurred, I was in Delray at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival.  This year, of course, it is being held online, and I so wish I could spend this time with that community in a deeper sense.  It feels strange to have this transition and be in this strange quasi-festival.  There is a part of me that is on edge because of it, because the cycle is incomplete.  It feels as if a door that was opened was closed wrong, somehow, though I know that is only my perspective, my own desire for certain kind of repetition.  I suppose it is natural I should feel that way, that I should want the ending to rhyme more exactly with that first line.

That Motel in Savannah We were staying at that hotel, that old motel you liked, and my Dad liked it.  He said he liked it, at least, enjoyed the charm of it, the colorful take on retro chic, but then he got sick.  Remember: he was about to eat an oyster. I do not know why I remember the oyster.  It is not important, even the restaurant is not important, but it was The Old Grey. I remember taking him to the hospital, remember the waiting, the hallways, the way he looked.  It was hours before they admitted him. That hospital, you remember how bad it was, the mistranscribed notes that led to mistreatment, the night he called frantic, sounding insane.   Mom went that night, came back saying it was true, said she had seen enough to know they were gaslighting him, were attempting to cover up mistakes by making him seem crazy. And he was still not well, but he could not stay there. Remember the fight we had convincing the administration to let him go.  We were in Georgia and could not drive h

Workshop this morning was very productive.  We did several writing exercises, and I felt very good about the work itself. Today's focus was on aubades, which are poems relating to the morning, generally in praise, though they can be negative instead.  It helped me to be grounded to the concrete in that way, I think, though I am also aware that I have written many poems about the morning before, though I had not thought of them as aubades in specific.  I do have to admit it is a bit odd doing the festival online, and the workshop has been a little bit less feedback and conversation driven.  I understand this, of course, as the technology does not facilitate having a dozen or so people actively conversing with the ease of doing so IRL.  I do think that I am gaining a great deal from the work we are doing, but it is still not the same as being there.  Yet, I cannot help but feel it is even more precious a thing in this time, even if it must come in a somewhat handicapped form.

It Was in My Head But My Hands move as they do, interpret the angles I have idealized, or is it my mind not knowing what motion it means? I knew in my mind what to do, saw it, felt it, thought it, but the motion itself did not match, or did they match what I did think, was it a misalignment that began in my mind? I cannot know, cannot say  there is a difference or if I splitting clay into more pieces and pretending it makes even more clay. The fingers of my hand cannot dance to the tune that my mind was playing, and I cannot hear if it was the player who missed the beat or the dancer forgetting steps.

I am keeping this short, again, since I am going to need to be up quite early for workshop tomorrow.  Tonight we had a first introductory class, and received a rather simple assignment, to create lists of things we like and dislike about the morning.  It is a simple thing, but I found it challenging.  Ten of anything of that sort can get to be a challenge, and it is a good reminder of how easy it is to not pay attention, to not even notice you are not aware.  I think a part of the difficulty for me was also in attempting to be specific, as well, but that seems a necessity in doing such a simple assignment well.  I am not certain how well I succeeded, in truth, and some of the items felt a bit close to each other, though I hope not quite repetitive.  I am excited to see what we do with these lists, as I am sure Tim has a plan for them.

Unity It is not a question if we are as strong as we were before all this occurred, it is not a question any test would ask unless the teacher was too kind, the cracks show now: were there, but now they show.  The cracks may be stronger,  but only the cracks.

It has been difficult to write today.  In part, this is a result of the processing I am doing over the various things I discussed last night.  It is difficult to change, to let down some of the barriers I am recognizing, and part of me wants to reject this path, to not confront this change.  I recognize that resistance as natural, and also think it to be a sign that I am reaching something important, as I said last night.  None of that, however, makes the work less difficult.  My impulse to do the same work needs to change, and that takes time.  I think doing some writing exercises geared at description and physicality may be of help, so I am going to look at that tomorrow.  As well, my workshop with Tim Seibles starts in the evening tomorrow, so I am hoping that will also provide some help and motivation for this progress.

Failure of Communication  I did not notice the email you sent at the time of arrival, it disappeared inside the inbox, the avalanche that came after, a cavalcade falling over top, pushing it down, burying it, and I did not notice. Maybe if it had come the day before, had not been delayed itself, but it was not there when I was looking, when my eyes were keen for it, as it is, it arrived but was unnoticed, arrived too late to be considered at the time.   But would it matter if I had said any of it yesterday? I do not think the issue between us would be resolved by prompt replies.

I am finding it difficult to begin writing tonight.  I know I want to continue on with my considerations of the discussion I had with Nickole Brown yesterday, but I am finding it difficult to do so.  The discussion we had was focused on my poems, but she pointed out things in the work that are very deep and real, and which reverberate in other ways for me in my life.  One of the central things that came up was her sense that many of my poems are withholding something, and I recognize this guardedness.  She pointed out that many of the pieces do not have a great deal of embodiment, and are lacking in materiality, in viscera, are lacking "stuff."  "Put more stuff in your poems," she told me, meaning it in a literal sense: that my poems need items in them.  In part, I think this is all a mechanism of hiding, of hoping to rely on the parts of me that I am least ashamed of.  As a boy, I often found my emotionality to be disparaged, and I think this caused me to discount

Made to Order It is very nice that errors are rare, that few people will open a box to find disappointment at what it contains, that you are reliable, are an oak table that never crumbles when fists drop onto the surface, that is a thing you are quite proud of, tell me again and again, repeat it as if you are only an echo, but I wonder why you think it good to rub my nose in how reliable you are when we both know you have failed in my case and all it does is make me wonder: if that is the truth, why am I still here asking for a refund?

 I am going to be rather short tonight, as I have a very early morning tomorrow and do not want to be up much later.  At the same time, I do have a great deal I want to write about after my conference today with Nickole Brown.  As mentioned, she has been a very positive influence on me in the past, and is one of the people that I really trust for insights that will push me forwards.  In our discussion today, she offered me a lot of insight for my work and helped me to see the things that I am holding back in my work.  I feel very lucky to have had this opportunity, and I know I am going to have more to say in regards to this soon.

Before He Was Gone I missed him for years, already, almost enough for decades to be counted between the time when we spoke, when I did not think of him in the past, a person I knew before the train had left one station for the next, and was I the one who rode it away or the one on the platform, was the fog on the glass my breath, or his? It does not matter now. I missed him already, but it does not matter the way I missed him then.  You miss him now, and I still miss him, was missing him already, but not the way it is to miss him now. The old pain does not go because of the new one.

I recognize that some aspects of my writing are outside of the norms.  This is true in your poetry as much as in other work, and I know it is a part of what creates a challenge for me in publishing.  At the same time, I also do not want to be writing what anyone else could be.  It is, however, also important for me to grow and learn, and I wonder, at times, if I have made deliberate choices in my work that might weaken it from certain perspectives, and I also am coming to recognize that their are factors in these choices that reflect my fears, that are protective, and which need to be shed.  I have been writing so much, until quite recently, but I also know how many things I have chosen not to write.

What Will Be Best? It is too long for it to work, but what can be done in the present will not work either, and other options do not seem apparent. They may exist, but it has been so hard getting even to this: I am sore, legs do not wish to move again, arms want to place down all they have carried to this place, but now, this place is not as it seemed when the journey commenced. Still, to rise once more, to begin it all again: is that better?

 One of the problems I am facing, in my current papercrafting efforts, is the difficulties I have with coordination.  I am often quite clear about an idea in my head, but executing it is not as simple.  As a result, while I am still experimenting with paper, I am also starting to work on learning CAD software, so I can translate the designs from my head.  I had thought this would be quite difficult, for many of the same reasons that I find cutting and gluing hard, but a friend recommended OpenSCAD, which is text based and seems to be accessible for me.  The biggest issues I am having is in keeping clear on orientation of the axis, but I am hopeful to be able to get a level of proficiency, at least enough for my current purposes.  

Inevitability How is it this got to be what happened? So many other possibilities might have been allowed to manifest instead, but only one could be, at least here, in the experience of being here in this world, and this is the way it came to be here, but it had to be it could  have been another way, maybe, it still could. 

 I am sliding back a bit, in terms of my writing.  I had gotten back to writing in the morning as well as in the evening, but have been less diligent, and am writing fewer poems at present.  I am lucky, however, as I am attending the Palm Beach Poetry Festival again next week (online, of course), though it will begin, for me, on Friday, when I am having my conference with Nickole Brown.  Nickole has been a very positive force, pushing me to get to work years ago, and that was what first led me to my daily writing routine.  As well, I am attending a workshop with Tim Seibles, a poet I first met and workshopped with when I was around thirteen, and who I worked with at a previous PBPF as well.  I am lucky to be getting this recharge at what feels like just the right moment.

Watching I do not know what show it is you are watching, but it does not seem the thing I would watch if I were selecting thr entertainment at this moment, but I am judging without knowing anything at all of what is here. If nothing else, I may learn more of what fascinates you.

This morning I discovered a corrupted file on my computer.  At the moment, the pc I have is quite old, and in need of replacement, but I am stuck with it for a bit longer.  It concerns me to find this file is corrupted, as I assume it is not the only file that is damaged, especially as I do not know the cause.  I didn't even begin looking to see what others files might be damaged, as I have too many documents to do it by hand.  Until I figure out why this happened and what files are in good order.  I need to back them all up, in case anything else happens.  It has me working on my phone at the moment, though I know I could write this on the computer safely, since it is online and not saved on my pc.  I will admit it is a choice driven, in part, by the upset and concern I am associating with the computer's unreliability.

Positivity I must think of the good that has come, the things that have appeared to improve or enhance, even the littles things that might be missed without attention. I must find them, those things. I must remember to believe they are here though I've not noticed.

I spent a good deal of time today working on my paper project, which is, in some ways, a distraction at the moment, in a positive way.  I am still doing my writing, and meeting my obligations, so it has not been problematic in those ways, rather it is giving me something new and interesting that I am able to explore with a sense of immediate feedback.  I can easily see what works or what does not, and I don't need to wait to see what others think.  As well, it allows me to focus on something besides the crises of the world, and of my own life.  It has been a rough time, of late, and it is good to be able to just drift off and focus on something that is self-contained and does not involve deep thinking about anything beyond the task itself.  Beyond this, I do feel I am approaching something that will be really interesting and novel, and which may open up avenues for me to explore things I've always been fascinated by but never had a chance to into dive fully.  I feel quite close

I Do Not Want to Be Here Not any longer, not now, but I cannot go, not yet, not even now, after this. I must stay, cannot go, not now, not even soon. It was better once, not perfect but better, now it is not just imperfect, it is a perfection of another sort, and I wish it were simple, wish it could go back, but it is too late for it to get better without changes that cannot happen in this place where I must stay.

The rejection letters have been arriving, three have come since the first of the month, or perhaps it was four.  I am not entirely certain.  I have to hope that the trend will break soon, but I do feel rather dejected considering the complete lack of acceptances that has met my efforts for so long now.  I'm reaching a point of exhaustion and frustration with it all, and I just wish I could get some actual advice and direction, something that might help me to find a reason for this.  I know that many will just point at luck, but I would be more upset to think it was only a matter of luck and that no underlying factors were involved.  I don't want to be a victim of random chance with no potential for changing the outcome.  That seems far worse, as it takes away any potential for acting to alter things, and I need to believe that I have some capacity to affect this.  Otherwise, it really is far darker, as it calls into question much of my past and those who encouraged me in my wor

I Said It Would Hurt Me You did not stop, made it clear my feelings were not important, were only an impediment to be bulldozed over, so, now, when you say you feel guilty that you did  what you knew already would cause such harm, I can only think it is you saying my continued pain is me inflicting damage, matters only because you want to feel better and not have to worry that you have damaged our family in ways that cannot be corrected.

I am attempting to focus on my papercraft projects right now, and I think I have made some real progress towards what I am imagining.  It is difficult for me to make the parts I am imagining, a lot of the time because of my coordination issues, but I am getting better, and I hope to have something of interest soon.  In some ways, I feel like a mad scientist with what I am considering, but it feels very nice to have a project where I can judge the outcome of my work in terms of the actual function and not the nebulous questions of art.  I am excited to get through this first set of steps, as I think it will allow me to create some amazing things, and I am excited to be able to show some of these things and discuss the specifics more, but I am not confident enough in what I am doing quite yet.

Is The Door Open? If it is, move fast, jump through before it closes again.  It will close again,  it cannot stay open, it must close, so be fast and do not wonder what is within until it has shut behind you.

The fact that it took yesterday's events to get any real consideration of acting against Trump and those who have allied themselves with him is beyond disheartening.  I am, of course, glad to see these things happening, but it is too late in so many ways.  The damage that has been done is not anything that we can rectify with ease, and I do not believe the resolve exists to really see the task through.  It is also quite clear that many are still acting to defend Trump, and the fact that so many legislators still endorsed the beliefs that led to yesterday's violent uprising by voting to contest the results is tragic.  I listened to some of what Ted Cruz had to say on the subject, for example, and his comments seemed designed to split the baby, by denying the underlying allegations but affirming the importance of investigating the claims of fraud because of the masses of people who believe in it.  The fact that he and others in his party perpetuated that narrative with deliberate

Beginning Each attempt has failed so far, each one has only shown a way not to do what is desired, a way not to achieve the outcome, and it is not pleasant to fail this way, but it is needed, is what must be encountered first, it is the process, is how to discover what will work. I know that, it is clear to me that these  are first steps, but it does not mean failing feels any better.

 I do not know what I should write tonight.  The events of the day have been so terrible, and yet seem to be the predictable outcome to what has happened over the last four years.  Those who are in office who supported Trump's undermining of the election need to be held to account.  This has become a revolt, an effort to undermine and subvert our democracy through violence and force.  Those who have built the support for these actions deserve to be charged as conspirators in this effort to overthrow the electoral process, and Trump himself is clearly responsible for the direct incitement of these actions.  If their is not a real and clear response that holds him and his collaborators to account, I fear for what will come next.

Now They Want to Act want to do what was needed for so long, what they had chance to do, responsibility to do, now it seems right, now, after the damage has reached fervor, violence, insurrection, now they will act to protect the nation from what they created.

 I mentioned before that I have been very drawn to certain types of papercraft of late, and I am finding that my thinking in this area is getting quite complicated.  I have not done a great many projects in physical form, as I am still in a sort of design mode, though much of this is happening only in my mind at present (it can be difficult for me to express these things in a way that is coherent to others, as I can't really draw well and have had limited success learning computer software to aid in that process).  Today, I found that many of the directions I am considering have been explored, to some extent, by others, though I do not think they ever put the ideas into the kind of framework that I am thinking from.  For example, I discovered that an artist and designer developed an entire series of logic gates made from paper, and a way to construct mechanical computers of various sorts, with nothing but paper itself.  A similar thought had been in my mind for a long while, and I

It Exists It is not possible to get it, but it does exist, just do not expect to see it or meet anyone who has seen it, though some will say they have as is always the way, but it does exist, it is just not possible to get it, not for you, maybe for someone, though that person will not be anyone that you would know, not at all, but you should be glad to know it is real, to be aware it is someplace on the earth though never where you will be.

I do not feel very much like writing tonight, and have not for the entire day.  I still did my work, but I was distracted and unfocused.  There are other matters on my mind, and, though I can write about those, that work feels, at the moment, like wallowing, and does not seem to me to be very artistically meritorious.  I still did it, but I would rather find a way to just be distracted for the moment, as I am allowing myself to process a whole bunch of new information.  The information itself is not bad, is most likely good, in the long run, but it is still unexpected and has impact on plans for the future, in both long and short term ways.  It is not worth getting into it right now, because it is still just too fresh for me, and I am still a bit hesitant.  Besides, I want to speak with certain people in my family first and to discuss it a bit.  Right now, I am just feeling nervous, but I think that is natural.  I wish I could focus enough to write something unconnected from this, but

An Option Is Presented that seems to be good, seems to be the way to move away from the pain that has grown in and around this place, and I am certain it is a good choice, but I am not certain I am ready or want to choose that option yet, though I know it is best and must be done.

I want to take a little bit more time to consider the idea of revision through curation, as I was discussing yesterday.  This is something that is quite complicated, and I think the first step is in discussing some of the questions around creating a larger work of poetry from individual pieces.  At times, this is a self-described process, as when the work is narratively or thematically connected, or from a particular speaker or set of speakers.  A great many wonderful books of poetry are born from this kind of impulse, and I can think of some poets whose entire careers seem to move across such works, with each book representing a particular poetic project they had undertaken.  I see this as a valuable way to approach the poetry, and I can imagine how it can be a result of curating a larger body of work, discovering the pieces that share a certain theme or voice, or which meditate on a single event or set of events.  As I have said, I often find myself writing around and through the sam

But Not Tonight I keep meaning to update the credit card information on my Sunpass account. Each time I drive on the turnpike, the toll booth chides me: LOW FUNDS, it screams with angry red letters, and I remember I need to do that, but I do not recall afterwards.  I think of it only in that moment, when I am driving and can do nothing. Of course, now I am here, writing and not driving, am at home, free to take care of this problem, right now, if only my wallet were in the room.

 I woke up this morning and got myself to work writing, as I had been hoping to do.  Though I did not write any fiction, I did get in two separate sessions for writing, and yielded four poems from the effort.  It always feels odd to be speaking in these terms, but the number of poems is so meaningless in a larger sense.  I mean, a single poem is not a unit of the work, in terms of what it really takes to create a piece of value, but it still stands as a unit in my current paradigm.  I don't know if that is a problem or not, really, as long as I don't start thinking of each piece as finished or complete, and recognize that what I write in a day is only a start.   It may seem to many who read this blog that I don't seem particularly focused on revision or editing, and much of the time that is true.  I spend a lot of my energy creating new work, but it is often true, as well, that a new poem is really a revision, or perhaps a reiteration of older efforts.  As well, I learned a

He Thinks He Can Be Trusted and there are ways that can be seen as almost true, when speaking of certain things, of certain kinds of honesty, it can be said it is true. I do not think he would cheat me out of money, or try to take what he knows is not his, but I do not know  what he calls his own, or what he thinks he deserves, and it is clear, there are ways he will betray, ways he will twist events, stories, and he will say it is the truth, will say that he is telling the truth, will seem to believe it is so, having said one thing, he will turn and turn his saying it into a weapon,  will make it seem wrong, make it seem he was a victim even when we have agreed, will say it is fine, then tell the story of how he was forced.

 I need to push myself to write more again.  I needed the rest I have been taking, but it is time for me to start putting more work in again.  I am going to try to get some writing done in the morning tomorrow, and hope to get a bit of fiction going at some point, as well.  I allowed myself to relax a bit, to slack off on my writing, and I think it was important, was good for me, when that began, but now, it is only habitation which keeps things from changing.  I need to put more energy into the system again.

I Had A Neighbor Once who managed  the copy shop across from the university where I was a student. He had a pet iguana and wrote Arthuriana. Also, he made absinthe in his bathtub. I remember watching Asian action films in the living room of his house. I went by the store where he had worked when I was back visiting the university last year, But he was not there, they said he still lived  nearby, was around, but he did not work there.

 The new year is upon us, and it is quite refreshing to be through with the mess of 2020, but it is not as if anything is really cleaned up yet.  It has been so strange, and it does not seem as though it will be changing back soon.  Still, it is nice to be able to mark the passage of the year, to keep faith in the notion that something has been left behind which we need not carry any farther into our future.

Shift Change to think of it in other terms, not as it seems now but as it should seem when viewed again from the perspective of the desired outcome, not that it is simple to even recognize the true choice for how it would be from that person who is the same as the one considering it, the same one as is here, but not the same in time, in the version of an identity, to see instead the way it is to look back from who that will have to be, to imagine the way it is to see these problems as they are now, to imagine seeing them, recalling all of that with the mind that is the same but for the lessons learned in moving to the place where it has changed, where it can be seen from another side.