Would That I Might

 Melissa and I had to go make certain decisions for our house today, and it has left me feeling rather down.  When we original moved here, we were excited, and the renovation was a chance to build something for our life together.  Now, though, the events with my family have changed all of that, and today just aroused a lot of those feelings for me.  I wish that I could change things, but all the options we have feel like a punishment.

Spiders Never Lie no, they have other issues, but they always present each strand of truth unaltered, so, if they told you that, it is the truth, or, at least what the spiders think is true. It may be they are wrong, sthat is possible, they are only spiders.

 I am still in much the same mentality as yesterday, especially having received multiple rejections today, but I am attempting to keep my focus on the work I am doing.  It is difficult, as I would like to have some sense that my efforts will allow me to proceed towards my career goals, not only my artistic ones, and the evidence of ny current predicament suggests otherwise. I do believe I am making progress as an artist, but even determining that seems impossible without some form of meaningful, positive response.  I have received various positive comments, thoughts most are simply a line encouraging submitting further work, and it often feels, at present, as if I am being told nu work is of an appropriate quality to be published, just no one wants to publish it.  I believe that my writing has merit, or, at least, that within the large quantity of work I have amassed, there are some good poems.  I have faith that the writing I am doing will be valued, one day, and I wish I could be hap

It Is Still Theoretical In my mind, I can see the pieces, can feel each one, even know the exact lines to cut to make them.  I can feel it, can hold and manipulate, can check the details, but it is only in my mind, has not been made.  My hands: I do not trust my hands will do what I need, do not believe it will be possible, not for me.  I can conceive it, but taking it out, raising it off the mental shelf so it may sit before me in this world, not only in the abstraction I imagine, I may need help for that, may need other hands that can move with precision, though I am still uncertain how I even can translate what I know in a way another will comprehend.

I am not certain what to write about tonight.  I have done my work, including some more to do with my new manuscript, but I do not really have much to say about any of that.  I do not want to go on, once more, about my fears with publishing, as that is just frustrating, as I can find no way forward, although it is, once more on my mind.  I don't want to focus on that though.  I have to find some way to get out of my current predicament, but that awareness has done me no good thus far.  I believe there must be some way forward.

Luck It happened only to me, again and again it will happen but only to me, and not in one place: here and there and in that other place, too; not because of one person who chose to frustrate me. no one is doing it. It is a pattern, but I cannot know the cause, cannot know why it is always happening to me, it's always going wrong, the road I need to take is voted, the ticket window closes as I am approaching and the walk was just long enough to let all the other windows grow a line, the train goes express just after leaving the station before my own, dinner arrives with everyone's order  but for mine.  Small things, but again and again, not once in a while, not one bad day but again and again, and I do not know what to do, what can change  these things that happen for no reason but too often to be random.

I have been focusing on working to make my poetry more specific and lush, as that may be one aspect of what is holding me back.  I think, in some ways, it is more about being explicit, and being willing to lay aside a lot of cleverness in order to be more clear.  At heart, I am working towards creating something that is sincere, and that requires being vulnerable in ways that are not always easy.  I know I need to break through some of my internal barriers so that I can move forward with my work.  I am hoping this will also help in terms of crafting poems that editors respond to, but I recognize it is a deeper effort than that.

When I Speak of Altering A Recipe, You Scowl I tell you that I am  adding a bit of this, replacing that with some other thing, you look down to hide the glare, shrug your disdain, but tonight, you decided to copy that sauce I made last week that we all enjoyed so much. I sent the recipe, but you know: I tasted, adjusted, modified to taste. It is far too salty.  Everyone, even you know it is too salty.

As I have mentioned on occasion, I have been working on a papercraft project that is rather complicated.  At the moment, I am still at the beginning stages of this, but I am reaching a critical point, a breakthrough that will, I believe, unlock the path towards what I am imagining.  I have been working on the idea of creating logic gates from paper, gates that imitate the essential mechanism on which electric computers are built.  I think that I have found a general design that can be modified to create all the basic logic gates used to make computational circuits.  I still have to complete the design of the basic prototype, but I am very close to having something that will work.  It is only a first step, but it feels like a major one.

I See An Owl in The House The light glows out from the two, thin windows, which tonight, I do not know why look like great eyes over the yard, a giant owl with eyes scrunched into slits.  I have not decided: is it a guardian or is its vigil motivated by a dark, demanding hunger?

I am quite tired tonight, so it is good that I am finishing up my work and can try to get to bed soon.  I have been spending a fair amount of time with work for the new collection, and I am seeing the ways it might come together, as well as the various places that will need to be filled in with other work, either new, or, more likely, from the large amount of poetry I have already composed.  I feel positive about this process, though it is very intuitive and hard to explain.  A large part of it is just trusting that the work will point the way, and that seems to be a successful approach, so far.

The Right Conditions I will begin as soon as the sky is the right shade of blue and the clouds are in proper order, it would do no good to begin before then, it could be disaster, beginning before the sky is right, It may be any day.  I will watch, each minute I will watch, I am sure I will know when it is the sky I am waiting for.

I am finding it difficult to feel optimistic about getting any acceptances for my work.  It just seems unrealistic to think that things will shift for no reason.  I've had enough pieces turned away, from enough journals of differing sorts that it feels clear, right now.  I am still, of course, waiting on more work to come back, and am likely to send out more soon, as well, but these feel to be token gestures with no real significance any longer.  I know it is still possible that work will be accepted, but the possibility has existed all along without being fulfilled, and I do not know how to change it.  I would be glad to find that I am wrong, of course, but believing that is about to happen is not helpful.  At the same time, it feels suicidal to sit here and press forward in this way.  I need to break through this.  I need to be able to act in a way that will lead to real change in this situation, and I know that is a thing that does not seem to exist.  I have been in this situati

What Must I Do to Make It Better, Now?  The choices we made seemed good, at the time the seemed solid, sturdy, seemed to rest on solid bedrock, but, now, the foundation has been hollowed out from beneath us, but we are still here, standing in this place, and what are we to do? We chose, obligated ourselves, and now, that was the wrong choice, but it does not change our situation, does not provide new options for us at all.

Ideas for a new novel are developing, but I am noticing certain ideas that seem very close to things I have played with in the past.  It is easy to second-guess this, to want to do something new and not retread the same ground, but it is also clear that any artist has obsessions that come out in their work.  It is no good to be stuck in a rut, but it is also questionable if it is good to run from what is essential.  At the moment, I have decided to not worry about these repetitions, though I am paying attention so that I can consider what might be too much in this regard.

Responsibilities I am tired and want to rest, my eyes are open, but only because I will them to be, and each muscle is worn, has done its work, but it was alright, it was my choice to take this on, to do this labor, I chose these obligations and I thought it was good, would be good, was worthwhile. I believed I was doing this to make a better life, to make a future, but now?  Now, it will be far longer, all the labor must continue, is necessary, though the results can never be correct. It could have been a different way, but this is how is is now, how it has become: the path is straight and long, and seems steep. I wish you would admit what you have done.

 I had a productive session with Freesia today, discussing the new manuscript.  We went through a large number of poems, making notes on the various thematic connections, and finding ways that the poems can build together in the book.  There are already elements that build on one another, and there are ways in which the elements seem to come together naturally.  For example, I am finding a number of places where poems overlap in a way that can be structured to build.  The focus at the moment is on bringing more work in so we can build the major structure.  We have a good sense of what connects the poems we have selected, so finding more work to bring in is only a matter of applying that lens to other poems I have written.

 It Would Be Nice to Be Done I have spoken about it before, have said the same things, tossed little piles of words on the table, the ones I keep in my pocket, I have made so many, have spent hours alone  bundling together syllables. It is not fun, but I cannot stop, though no one asks for it, no one wants to hear any of it, I cannot stop.  Maybe if just once picked it up off the table, offered a bit of attention.

Over the past few days, the idea for this new book has been coming into focus.  It is still not clear, to be certain, but I have a good sense of a central concept for it, which I can explain, to some extent.  That idea is to tell a story that repeats through a series of different paradigms, so it is retold several times but in different settings and with different characters, but, as the book continues, that central story that is being shifted around is continuing and expanding without being bound to anyone one set of narrative elements.  It is not entirely clear what that means, or how such a thing would be done, but I have a few thoughts.  I also have a sense that I am still not aware of all the elements involved in the larger piece, but it is coming into focus for me, and I am hoping to have enough of a sense about it to start work soon.  In the end, it does not matter all that much if I can describe what I am attempting to do, it is only important what can be produced.

Sleepless It was still night but sleep had ended. It was clear, there was no point in remaining there, not any longer.  It was gray, the darkness of night smudged with light. It was silent.  Perhaps, I thought, the silence would be better, I could be alone in the silence, but alone, I thought, with the same mind that had dreamed what made being awake the better option,

 I need to get myself doing more work on the specific for the new manuscript.  In large part, this is getting more work together.  I have come to find that the work guides the shape of the book, and I think having a stronger sense of the work might be the best way to assemble and structure the book.  That is, of course, only an initial step, but it is an important one, especially since it is by examining the work that I often discover the connections I want to build on.

It Was Meant for You Alone I am certain someone was listening, though I have no good guess for who it might have been, but I am certain, could feel it, could feel even in that moment that ears were present, open, listening.  I should not have spoken, or should have spoken but said nothing.  I knew.  I was certain.

I am considering an idea for a longer work of fiction, as I believe I mentioned a few days ago.  I am not certain it is a novel, at least not in the traditional sense.  I think it may be a set of stories, but more connected, and with another layer of some sort that is part of the work as well.  It is not clear to me, but I have a sense the larger work.  If I were to talk about the story idea at the heart, the center of it is about an immortal being who incarnated through other people.  Not a soul reincarnation, but a seperate being that sort of enters these people's minds, though it is still unclear to me what that means fully.  I am in a space where even attempting to describe it is impossible, because the ideas are shifting.  I am hoping I can latch on to a clear enough sense of this that I might be able to start.

Here We Are Much is gone now that was essential, much was taken that is necessary. What remains is not enough, lacks so much that is required. Yet we are here, still, we survive.

 I spent more time looking over work for the poetry collection.  There is a very strong sense that the work can be shaped together to create a single experience.  There is a framework that is becoming more apparent as I look at the work, and which seems more coherent than I had expected, and I think I can find a way to fill it in that will he clear, but also won't hold the reader's hand too much.  The goal is to make the awareness of the structure emerge, as a discovery, not to hide it from the reader as a whole.

Now, You You May Come You would not be welcomed in most times, but these times: what choice is there now? Now, when the bananas  never ripen, when rhe stars spit dark at the day's sky. In other times, you would be told: we do not want you, because you are young, have choices, we would make you leave, would set you on a path, but now?  What path is left? No, just stay, join us. We can offer nothing besides belonging. It may still be best to go.  I am not certain, but the choice is your own.

Ideas are beginning to percolate, not only those relating to my manuscript, but others as well.  It is often this way, with a single creative endeavor sparking the flame of inspiration, casting enough light to brighten even far dostant corners of the imagination.  An idea i have had for an essay is beginning to take on a real shape, and I am avenger to begin working on it in a more concrete way.  A concept for a longer work of fiction is beginning to come together in my mind, at it feels very genuine to me.  It is not just that the story is itself interesting, it is that it stretches my thinking about what I might do in a work of fiction.  I even have had a number of very significant breakthroughs in my papercraft explorations which I think will get me to the next level in the project I am conceiving.  It has been some time since I felt inspired in this way, and I know it is a positive sign for the work I am doing on my manuscript, as well as a welcome development overall.  I hope it m

He Was An Unusual Cat He never trusted the grass, would reach forward to test it, uncertain what he touched. He would not walk on it, was too wary, too cautious of the strange growth, this green hair of the earth. The grass could not he trusted, he was sure it must be something unnatural to be avoided.

 I have a strong sense of what I want the collection I am working on to be, but I am also finding that ideas are developing that take the work into a more direct narrative, in some ways.  I am drawn towards this idea, but I am also recognizing that I may need to discover ways of communicating the connections that are more elegant than some of what I am considering.  It would be good to find a way to make the discovery of those connections organic for the reader, with the realization of what is shared between the poems being revealed in subtle ways that become clear over the course of the book.  I have to consider how it might be that I can point towards the connections while leaving space for those links to feel like a surprise when they are recognized.

Flashbulb I do not know what I noticed but there was a moment when I saw or heard some detail that was the same, was a resurrection  from some moment buried in a corner of memory, and I felt a stirring within, though I can say nothing of it now, cannot describe what it was, for a moment I felt again as someone I was once, and I wonder what it is I knew then I do not know now, what I know being who I have become that could not, before, have been considered 

The hundredth rejection arrived, as expected.  I suppose it is better to not be sitting, waiting, though there is far more work that I have not heard back on yet.  It does feel significant, but I also am aware that it means nothing, in some sense.  I do not believe that most journals are biased in accepting work from writers who have been widely rejected, or that this sort of rejection accumulates in a literal way.  At the same time, if one is to say that the issue is purely about luck, as many do, I have to wonder about the odds,.  I feel it is quite abnormal to have this degree of difficulty breaking through.  I have looked into the averages for rejections and acceptances, but finding information on this specific aspect is not easy.  I know that many writers have severe difficult getting an agent, but that is a different issue than getting work accepted by journals.  I just want to have concrete evidence that I am progressing and not just accumulating an increasing, and ultimately en

A Gnawing Concern In the garage there are boxes of glass bowls on high shelves. They have been there long enough it should not worry me.  Those shelves have not moved: the boxes have been still.  Nothing has crashed, no shattering, scattering sbards. It has been fine.  For years, they have been there, sotll: I worry.

I received another rejection letter today, bringing the count to ninety-nine.  It is like teetering on an edge, though I know it will not change anything, and I will be told it has no meaning or significance.  It certainly does not feel insignificant.  I am able to see that it represents a sincere effort, but a sincere effort without any positive results is not easy to feel positive about.  As I have said, it scares me to be at this point, especially when I do not feel i have really learned anything from these rejections, other than to expect my work to be rejected by anyone who could publish it.  There is something strange in the duality of my experiences, with being encouraged and applauded by many in the writing and publishing world whom I respect, while also being unable to publish even  a single piece.  Often, I will send out work that I have been told is good and deserving of publication, only to find no one wants it.  And now, I am at the precipice of my hundredth straight rejec

What Once Seemed Real was there, was visible in colors crisp as cracker crust, sat, hard in my hand when I grasped it, and I felt it  in my palm, pressing into the fleshy mound that meets my thumb. I felt it then, but now it is nothing, is dust or air or the space where dust and air might have been. I thought it was, but ny hand is empty; was it always?

In looking over work that I am considering including in my new collection, I am also thinking about the spaces that I may want to fill with new poems.  I think it may be important to create work that connects the poems, and which carries elements present in some of the poems forwards through the text.  In part, I am considering how I might use language from some of the poems to create new pieces.  These poems would be built from elements lifted out of multiple other poems, and would serve to bring those other poems closer together.  While it is easiest to consider and explain this in terms of language, I am also thinking in terms of aspects relating to image and form, as well as more nebulous qualities.  The goal is to bring the pieces together for the reader by creating patterns that continue through the book in a way that feels meaningful, a growth and progression in the ideas that connects each poem to the rest 9f the book and each piece within it.

Nothing Was Done to stop it: no one acted, there hands only troubled at the deepest seams of each pant pocket, worrying free lint and small.crumbs of debris. Their were warnings: the sky was red,  glowed its angry omen, the seas whirled like blades. Even the birds knew, flew, out of season, to other lands. But nothing was done, no one moved a finger, and now they all ask for cleaner pockets, if they had cleaner pockets such things would never happen.

 I am writing this at a far different hour than usual.  Most of the time, I am content to let myself wait until well into the night, making writing this entry one of the last acts of my day.  I find it is a good summation for me, and a way to remain motivated towards other work.  At the same time, though, I often put off the work I want to do until later and later.  In part, this is due to a difficulty with sleeping that I have had for a long time, as well as a more recent issue with unpleasant dreams, but it is also just a by-product of my general habit of procrastination.  While I have gotten myself to do my writing each day, I still have that desire to put the work off that nags, and it manifests, much of the time, in letting the writing wait until I am wanting to go to bed and feel the deadline of the day's end approaching.  Today, though, I am taking the step of writing this early, having already done other work already.  If I write more after, that is fine, but I do not need

Before It Began, I Saw I saw the danger that was growing. I had dreams of it, dreams of the house crumbling into shadow. It was clear to me. I knew it was coming. I told you my fears: you made certain they would come true.

 As I said last night, it terrifies me to be in my current situation, as I cannot help but feel a certain despondency, a fear that I will never reach any kind of real success in my career as a writer.  I do not know how I can change this, and I am not speaking of the external circumstances, but my experience of those circumstances.  If I were ever to accept the idea of my writing as a thing I am doing solely for its own sake, as is often suggested as a cure for the kind of woes I am facing, it would be a sign that I had been defeated on some level that is beyond my current comprehension.  That is not to say that I do not respect writers or artists with that attitude, as I know many who have that kind of perspective who are very talented and authentic in their work, but for me, it would mark my choosing to give up on communicating, instead choosing to just write things for myself and my own amusement, essentially journals or worse.  I would not be a writer in the way I conceive of mysel

It Would Be Good to Tell You to be honest about all this.  I want to be, to tell, to be honest. It is like a weight in my lungs, holding it all.  I cannot breath,  it feels as if I am in a mist, as if the air is not air.  I want to let go, to step outside, to step away from this, and I know, I must speak, must tell you, must say it all< even if you do not wish to hear it, even if I do not wish it were true. It is true.  I should say it. I know I should say it. I know not saying it will leave me bereft of air, will leave me with nothing to power any voice again.

I feel very scared about my career prospects right now.  I am approaching my hundredth straight rejection.  I had one piece accepted by a local journal in 2019, but that was before I had begun my real push.  Since then, it has been relentless and unchanging, and I am afraid to have this continue.  It is too late for me to pursue something else in the way I have poetry, and even more, writing is the only thing I have a real desire to do on this level, indeed, a great deal of my identity is built upon the belief in my self-conception as a writer.  It is not only that I have felt a love for writing since quite early in my childhood, it is also that I was guided and encouraged by many of the most influential people in my life since I was young.  If there was a point when I might have considered another path, it was at the precise time when I was being pushed by knowledgeable mentors I respected and trusted to pursue this profession.  And now, I fear that it was all leading to this place of

You Want Me to Accept What You Have Done It would be best to change what is within me: the circumstance is not so malleable, now, it was before, but now, after this, it is not plastic but stone, and it would be better to not smash against it, to accept the hard, cold  of these walls, to admire the solid construction and call it beautiful, as though it were anything besides a cage.

 I have been having a lot of very distressing dreams, most focused on the issues that have come up in my family this past year, and deriving from the feelings that have developed around this house where Melissa and I live.  When we bought it, I was very afraid that it was a mistake, as it is quite close to my mother, but it seemed to be the right choice at the time, for many different reasons.  I was concerned, but, after speaking about the issues with my Mom, Melissa and I decided it was what we wanted to do.  In specific, I was worried that my mother would not respect our boundaries, creating a situation in which this house became uncomfortable for Melissa and for me.  I feel very trapped, to be honest, and I do not know how to get out of the situation in any way that is acceptable.  I do not want to be in this house at all, any longer.  I've woken up crying the last several mornings, and that has been happening with more and more frequency, even at times when I cannot remember m

You Should Know How It Came to This I want to tell the whole story, to make it clear, to bring each color, each texture, the exact pitch of any voice.  I want all of it rendered with details unmistakable, the green leaf trembling on a tree so vivid it is clear no detail could be false, so you know it as though it were here before you.  I want to tell you, to tell everyone.  But, the want is not enough, has not freed me from the great fear, has not pulled me free of the silent dark that surrounds me since it all began.

 I had a very productive discussion with Freesia McKee today, focusing on the work for the new collection.  Freesia has some work she selected for us in order to begin the process of organizing the book, and we looked through some of those poems in order to see what we might discover.  I think that one of the most significant things we determined had to do with recognizing certain poetic modes that I often employ.  It is hard to explain the specifics of what I am describing, but I have many poems that use similar imagistic systems, or which are built upon a certain type of juxtaposition.  As a general example, I have written a number of poems in which an abstraction, such as silence, is personified.  These poems also share a certain tone and approach, not only the basic premise.  I also have a great many animal fables (though I am not as certain about how I might include these in this book.  I do have some ideas, but it is a matter of seeing what else is to be included), which also sha

It Was Nice, Before You wish to go from here and I do not blame you, not for wanting to leave, not at all.  It is easy to see why anyone wants to leave. I do not want to be here, why would I blame you for wanting to leave. I blame you for coming,  making this a place I want to leave.

 I have had a rather rough day, and I am not feeling very much like writing tonight.  A large part of it has to do with my family, and with my mother attempting to get me to just let go of my being upset about things, though nothing has changed in any real way.  She just wants me to fismiss my feelings, to let there be no negative repurcussions for anything that has happened.  That is all she wants, but I am still hurting, and I do not feel as if I can even begin to heal because none of what hurt me has ended.  If anything, it seems to be worse now.  I wish she would at least allow me to express my genuine emotions, but if I get even a bit angry or express any negative emotion, she will threaten me.  I feel very trapped right now, and tonight only made it worse.

She Does Not Like That I Am Still Upset I wish it were so simple as saying I am done: this is not a stone, is not a cold, flat hardness clutched too tight in my palm.   This is glass beneath skin, is a still wounding wound. It has not begun to heal, instead, festers, will rot. I want to heal, I want us to heal, but it cannot change just because you are hurting. You tell me you feel sick, that my pain is too much, is wounding you, as if I am choosing this, as if it is not what was done, but you do not want to feel that, do not want to admit the pain I feel, do not want to admit your part in its infliction.

I have begun looking at some of the poems that might become the core of my collection.  It is going to take a great deal of work to do what I have in mind, and it is going to take a certain amount of consideration to get to the point where I even have a real grasp on it as a project and a process.  I am aware of what I want to do: in a larger sense: the impact I am hoping the book to have.  As well, I have a clear sense of the tools that I want to use and the specific tactics to be employ.   That is what I am prepared with, but learning to implement those tools in service of that goal is something I must learn by getting into the work itself.  That is where the discovery can happen.

It Is Cold Tonight The air feels empty, carries only darkness, and yet I sit here, outside in the cold letting the chill roll across my skin. It is feels good, the crisp: sharp touch, it makes me remember something about my body, about having flesh  and being alive.

 I received a very positive note with a rejection of my chapbook today.  The editor commented on some traits they appreciated in the work and expressed a positive impression of the poetry.  I appreciate this, though I do wish it had offered some sense of what might be considered for improving the work.  At the same time, I recognize the symbolic significance of an editor offering such comments, and have to take it as positive.  I cannot know the reasoning for the rejection, but it is good to feel that someone read and appreciated the work, even if it was not selected for publication.

Too Much Was Spent   on more and more that was not enough, on bright and gleaming, on rainbow light, on what could be seen or was not seen in a particular way, on taking away darkness, and on toasters with digital dials that popped up  with that same precise cheer each time they ejected there precisely charred contents, but more was spent on air, on just the right air, the kind that could carry even the faintest scent of just browning bread.

 I have been writing fewer poems for some time now, but I am feeling different about this, at least right now.  For a long time, I have aimed to keep myself busy writing poems at an increasing rate, and that has been very positive.  For one thing, it has resulted in my having a large catalog of work to pull from, and even the poems that did not come out well provided me more practice at my art.  Beyond this, I also recognize that it helped to get me to the point where I know I can always write a poem.  It is easy to sit back and wait for inspiration, but I trained myself to see writing as an action I am more in control of.  I feel good writing a lot, to be honest, and it gives me a sense that I am progressing and learning as an artist. Right now, though, I am writing far less than in the past, and am not pushing myself to increase my output.  My focus is I on pushing the work farther, and I am doing that on a smaller scale.  It is hard, at times, to recognize the progress I am making,

To My Brother Entropy is a one way street: you cannot turn back what has happened, cannot unmix the water from the wine, cannot return light to the sun.  It goes forward, there is no returning.  You acted, you chose to do this, and now, after it is done, you feel regret, you say it was a mistake,  though it is not clear what you did not know: I told you all this would come. And now that it is done you want to take it back, but you cannot.  There is no way to unbreak what you have broken, it can heal.  With work, it can be mended, but it cannot be undone.