Would That I Might

As mentioned yesterday, I had jury duty today, and had to be up at the court around eight this morning. I spent most of the day on a panel for a case, but was ultimately dismissed after several hours of questioning, along with most of those who were paneled. A large part of the time was actually just sitting about in the hall waiting for the case to start, or just giving the lawyers and Judge the chance to negotiate things. I think we were standing in the hallway for two or three hours at one point, when we were first called in. This was followed by the main round of questioning from the judge, who went through a bunch of personal history with each juror, to find out about their relationships to law enforcement officers, lawyers, crime itself, and other related topics that might color the ability of an individual to serve as an unbiased juror. I found some of his commentary a bit absurd, in his desire to have a profession seemed to suggest, to me, a need to be certain of whatever

You Gave The Meaning to these symbols by how you used them, by the messages that passed through them, but you deny that, wish to use only the symbols you want, now, and without meaning, without the context, as a new language, and tell me to accept it all, to say nothing against it, to not even notice that you have taken away all that had meaning and replaced it with nothing at all. You keep it back. It offends you to even consider any meaning that is not the one you have concocted.

I start jury duty tomorrow, which I recognize can be important, but I am not looking forwards to it.  It is not even the actual thing itself of being a potential juror, but the pain of having to go down to the court and deal with it all.  I have to be there at eight, so I need to leave by seven, I think.  The prospect of such a shockingly early morning did, at least, get me to work early, so that I can get to bed soon.  That is one thing I can say for the system.

Contrary Cases I knew a woman who lived because she failed to wear her seat belt, would never have been freed from the wreckage if she had been strapped in to the car, and a friend of mine nearly died because he glossed his teeth and pressed some rot deeper down, infected his gums and jaw. They cut in and cleaned it out.   He spat pus and blood for days. It is not a clear world, what is good can bring harm, fortune can come of folly. Still, I know many examples of things that have occurred as you would expect, remain an advocate for seat belts and dental flossing.

I need to send out more of my work.  I still have a bunch that is out, but I haven't submitted much in quite a while, despite my continuing to write at a steady pace.  I sent in that short play, but aside from that, I can't recall the last submission I made.  It is a difficult thing for me to do on my own, as I have expressed before.  This is true in a number of ways.  First of all, I find the process and the tasks involved in the literal process of submitting and tracking the responses difficult.  This has caused me a good deal of fear, and I think that has fed my hesitancy in a way that makes me doubt myself in deeper ways.  I am never certain about what work is truly ready, which is, if I think about it, a problem that most writers probably know well, but I am more reticent to trust myself much of the time.  I wonder how much of this is inherent, is a reaction to the work and my general concerns as a poet, and how much is carried over from concerns that arise out of my more

Getting There It had been considered, had been prepared for, the path chosen, a way forwards, a route.  It was set, and the desire was to follow it, to have one course, one directive. The destination had been decided, agreed upon, but the way to go, the right roads to take, when to turn and where, all that was questioned. It was not possible the path I had set would be acceptable, though I was driving and knew the destination.

I did my writing tonight, as I always do, but the poems were all rather obsessed with the same ideas.  This happens at times, of course, with an idea working its way out in various guises,  In this case, I was progressing towards something, I think.  In some ways, perhaps each of the poems served as a sort of draft, in this case, clearing the way for a deeper, fresher perspective.  The first poem was superficial, or at least obvious, and when the next poem was on the same general subject, it pushed me to go in a new direction.  Though I was still attempting to communicate related ideas, I was farther in, had waded through the shallow waters, a process that repeated again and again, so that each subsequent poem had to pull from a new place.  It is not always this way, and it is not to say that the earlier poems might not be of value in some ways.  They may be raw and less refined.  Tonight, it felt as if I was moving towards something, but I will have to look over the work again tomorro

There Is A Stated Goal You are steering things in other directions, but what good is that? I know where I am aiming, am on a course: I know my needs, I know what will be good, what must change. It is not anywhere else; there isn't an alternative. I come to you for help, and this scares me. Is this your attempt to not address  this one thing that matters most to me?

Melissa and I are home again.  I was a bit worried we might not make it, as Melissa was having a great deal of pain in her leg and could barely walk.  A trip to urgent care diagnosed it as a sprain in her knee, and cleared her to fly.  There was quite a bit that still needed doing around the house, but we pulled it together before we left, cleaning up from cooking for Thanksgiving and getting ourselves packed.  It was a bit hectic, but Melissa and I were able to manage it by working together.  In the end, we made it to our flight without too much drama, and I am glad that we will be able to sleep in our own bed tonight.

The Aggressor  It is no good that your words speak of peace, the claim  that you are not mad, are never angry, do not want a fight. Those are the words, but you are yelling. No one else is yelling, scolding tones to reprimand us, to make clear how irate you are to be considered  anything less than peaceful.

We had Thanksgiving at the nursing home with Ann, though it was not clear if she enjoyed or appreciated it.  She was very upset that people were coming to harm her, and we spent a lot of time trying to calm her down and make certain she felt safe.  She has vascular dementia, so much of this is expected, but it is still difficult.  I think she was glad to have her family there, and she did eat some and complimented the meal.  I think that she did appreciate it on some level and I am glad that we made the effort, as exhausting as it has been.

It Is Unclear, Still Only glimpsed, a hazy vision, a promise of understanding, of deepening what I know, but not yet. Is it real, or will it fade instead of brightening, even if it clarifies, is it the truth or is my mind misleading me?

Melissa and I spent the day preparing for Thanksgiving.  We are going to bring the whole meal over to the nursing home to share the meal with Melissa's mother and aunt, so we want to have everything done in time to get there by noon or so, when they usually serve lunch.  While I do most of the cooking, Melissa offers a lot of help with prep and manages a lot of the cleanup, which I truly appreciate.  We have a lot of stuff ready to go into the oven in the morning, and the one or two things that still need to be done beyond that are not too complicated.  It has been quite tiring, but it will be worthwhile if it helps to make tomorrow special for Ann.

We Will Come, will bring ourselves and all we can to sustain you. We have prepared, are readied and provisioned, and we will be there, will arrive there, be at your side. Perhaps it will be enough, though we are limited, cannot restore all things. It is impossible to bring back what was, but, perhaps, you will understand these acts and know you are not alone, have not been forgotten. It is what we can offer, though we long to do more, it is what can be within the limits of an already made world.

I received my acceptance to attend workshop at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival next year and am very excited to be working with Matthew Olzmann, a poet whose work I have admired for some time.  He has a rare capacity for being simultaneously absurd and serious in ways that are hysterical, but with devastating insights underneath.  I feel quite fortunate to have the PBPF, and can say, honestly, that each workshop I have attended there has been incredible.  As a person who has taken many workshops in my life, and who often finds them wanting, I am always astounded at the caliber of the classes at the festival, both in the instruction and in the community of poets I have encountered.  I only wish it could be more than just one week out of the year.

In The Nursing Home Sometimes she thinks we are in her home, that we were upstairs, somehow, though the home I know of hers has only one story.  Other times we are on a train.  Once it was a ship. Sometimes she speaks of being stuck, abandoned by her ride home. She has been desperate to get going, shouting that she needs to get to work. These are better than the times she is crying, yelling, she wants to go home. It cannot be explained to her,  she cannot understand it, cannot know the necessity, the reality of things as they are and must be, but that does not make it at all easy to do what is necessary.

I am preparing for Thanksgiving.  I am glad to do it, to be clear.  I enjoy cooking, especially when it is a special meal, and, even more, when I get to share it with other people I care about.  The plan is to make everything and go to the nursing home to share it with Ann, Melissa's mother, and probably, also, Melissa's aunt Mary.  The thing is, though, I have to clean up the kitchen at Ann's house, as well as getting every ingredient  I will need, even those that are usually in the pantry like salt and pepper, and I do not have a car or wallong access to a shop near the house.  We were able to get many things, including a turkey, at a small butcher's shop near the nursing home, but we still need to get to the market tomorrow, so that I can start cooking.  I think it will work out, but I know that I really have to get into gear at this point.

It Will Be Slow Again I expect, as it was before,  as it has been most times,  in my experience. I would like  if it were not so slow, but I will not cause trouble, will keep from complaining, though it is an effort, and I would be glad if it were different, but I know, it is best to accept what comes. No good will come of annoyance, no matter how it is expressed.

I am feeling quite worn tonight.  Pur visit to Phio has been busy and not entirely pleasant.  We are staying at Melissa's Mother's house, which is not all that comfortable right now, and no one has been living here since before the pandemic began.  We have been preparing to sell it, so have been emptying it, slowly, cleaning it up and clearing it out.  The result is, the place is livable but not much more.  In truth, it would probably be fine if we had a car, but as it is, we kind of wind up feeling a bit stranded.  I am glad I can be here for Melissa, though, and am working to set aside my, in the end, petty grievances to show her the support she needs and deserves.

Most Often, It Is Not One Thing No, what is beneath I not singular, is not specific. It is between two possibilities, or three, four.  Perhaps, at times, there is nothing, or no one thing, no specifics, just the shape, the form. Their is a perspective, a view but not what is seen only the way to see it.

I am in Ohio, but it has been a very long day.  We arrived around noon and went to visit Melissa’s mother, Ann at her nursing home.  We had considered going to the house first, to drop off our bags and rest, but we have no car at the moment and the nursing home is in a neighborhood where we could get lunch and do a bit of shopping for the house.  We spent half an hour or so at the nursing home, then went out for a bit and came back to spend a few more hours with Ann.  When we finally got to the house, it was already after six, and both Melissa and I were exhausted.  I am glad to be finishing my work early tonight, as I am quite eager to head towards bed for the night.

Unsaid It would be better if I were able  to be clear, to speak simple words with just this meaning, but I do not have them, so I have been silent. I hope you do not tbink it is a judgement or that I am hiding  what I think,  am not admitting it. Should I speak to offer proof, join the chorus as demonstration of faith? What if the silence is the thing I can say, is the only response that reflects this emptiness itself?

Tomorrow morning, Melissa and I are heading up to Ohio for Thanksgiving.  We felt it was important to spend the holiday with her mother, who is now living in a nursing home, and who recently lost her brother.  I am glad to go, to be there, but I am rather nervous about travelling there.  I haven't liked flying at any time that I can remember, except maybe when I was a little kid and thought it was kind of exciting.  Any enjoyment has been sucked from the miracle of flight by the banality of corporate airlines.  Adding the current conditions, with the pandemic and various requirements and restrictions, and it is rather fraught.  I am certain it will be fine, though.  We flew to Columbus not long ago, so I know what to expect, but I do wish that there was an alternative for our travel.  Anyhow, I need to get to bed, as our flight is pretty early and we are expecting the car around seven.

I Pressed Forward I  did not stop a moment but continued on, each step was taken until I reached here, this place at the end. I knew I would arrive: I was not deterred, but I did not think I could make it so soon, did not think I could, but it is so.  It was simple, I just continued on, just took each step as soon as the last had brought its foot back to the ground.

I am glad to be getting work done earlier tonight.  I've spoken of the struggle I've had, recently, to get myself started, and it has often led to me writing at three or four in the morning, simply because I am hesitating to start, allow myself to succumb to distractions.  I've spoken in previous posts about the underlying issues that I think are driving this issue, and it may be that even just being aware has helped with managing things a bit better.  It is not as if these things are different, but I am, at least tonight I was able to push through and make a better decision.  I still feel that same way, and I don't know how I can change that.  It is a response to things that feel outside my control, and the only way I can meaningfully make that better, by my definition, is to change the situation itself, not my attitude or response.  That may not be reasonable, but it is not a matter of choice.  I've attempted shifting my feelings around these things, accepting thi

It Is Raining Tonight but it is a quiet rain, in the darkness it is hard to notice through the window, but it is raining out there, it was, I know it was. It may have stopped. I cannot tell now, cannot be certain without stepping out into the cold and wet of the world. Inside, I do not know, I do not need to care, do not need to wonder what is happening in the places beyond. I can sit here in comfort and, with no effort to attend, will not even realize the conditions just outside.

I keep finding more and more that seems to revolve around and into the idea for this story I wish to construct.  It is not a single story, to be honest, but a nested set of interconnected tales, I think, but maybe all of them are really the same story being told in different ways.  I am not yet certain.  I have the idea that their is a character on a journey and that they are learning different tales along the way as a part of that journey, and that they are seeking to accomplish an important task of some sort, though it isn't entirely clear.  It is a variation on a classic set of tropes, but I see, already, ways it veers off, though I can't put them into writing yet.  I also keep sensing that the dangers being faced within the work are connected the notion of the universe itself failing or ceasing in some sense.  I have an idea of that being connected to certain meta-fictional elements, though I am not certain how to describe or explain that, but I have a sense of it taking sh

Looking Out Through the window it is easy to see so much world, sky and grass and birds and people walking by, so much is clear when looking out through the big window, but looking out there I will never see this place itself, will never know what it is I am within.

It is another really late night, and. while I am glad to have done my work, to be dedicated enough to do it even when it keeps me up this late, I know it is not a good thing.  As I said last night, I know this extreme procrastination points towards problems that trouble me.  I feel so trapped at the moment, without any chance to find what I am seeking, and that is not only about things around my writing, but other areas as well.  The problem is, I know that I cannot change many of those other things, at least not without shifting other things in my life, things that point back towards finding some degree of meaningful success.  It all circles around and comes back to the same place.  I had tried, some time ago, to find things I could focus on in my personal life as a way to feel a sense of progress and growth in that arena, but things have shifted in ways that have twisted that and made it impossible.  It became a reinforcement of my being powerless, and demonstrated, once more, that I

The Balance Is Off but the other end is so far,  is too far and this end has all it needs, is just right. I cannot disturb this side, no, not even for this, not even to set it right, no.  They must do it out there, where they are. They must add more, must give to make it right. I have set this and I do not want it to change on my end.  Why should I care what happens out there? I set my end right, now it must be balanced. It is not at all fair that they should expect I would change things. They should realise: they are so far away how would I care what they want? They should know it is not me who must adjust, must see I have no reason to consider another way, not when they are so far off.

I am thinking about how much difficulty I had with getting to work on writing the play for my recent submission. In truth, it is similar to the delay I've had many recent nights with my writing in general, and so I think it is worth exploring and unpacking. The root of it, I believe, is a sort of fear. In the case of the play, I felt too invested in the outcome of getting it accepted. I've been feeling such a lack of real opportunity, and it is not something I know how to shift or change or even face. The only positive change I can imagine would be the sense that I do have real opportunities and am taking steps that have direct impact on my progress, and not my progress in creating the work itself, but in my career. I've been told, of course, many times, to focus on the work itself, but this doesn't help me. For one thing, the work, to me, is not completed by my writing it alone. What matters is the interaction with the intended audience. It is not about my put

What It Says The message arrived but said nothing within what was there, but the nothing said was more a message, meaning slipping through along all the edges of what little was given, the lacking detail, the absence of anything that might be interpreted as more than was there, all of that was clear, was a calculation, a discouragement, a wall being built. Or, maybe, I see it there, see what I fear is hidden behind what is present, what is certain and clear. There may be more or there may not, but either way, I wish the message communicated something altogether different even on the surface.

 I finished my script and was able to get it submitted.  I spent much of the day working on it, and I am proud of the resulting piece, though I have no doubts that, if it is selected, their will be a good deal of work to develop the piece.  That is the way it was the last time that I had a piece accepted by this theater, and I am certain that it will be the same way again.  I know the areas of the piece that I would want to focus on, as I think one of the characters is more developed, and would like to even that out, which, I believe, can be done in a way that will enhance the inherent drama of the situation.  If I had been more diligent and gotten to work sooner, I had intentions to flesh some of this out, but the ideas I was having felt rather silly, to be honest, and I felt it would be good to focus on what I knew was going to work, and getting the general frame of the piece set.  I think that their is a lot packed into the piece, and I tried to keep it short while still getting a g

Who Matters to You? Am I one of those who is in your consideration, or do I fail in some criteria? Am I to be included, to be accounted for, or is it best to expect otherwise? I can prepare, if I know the answer, but I know what you will say, hear, already, your declaration of upset at the question, yet, how can I tell?  I have heard it before, and I know what you think of those people.

It is quite late, and I still have a great deal of work to do on my play before I need to send it in tomorrow night.  I am prepared to get it done in time, I believe.  I have a good sense of the play's elements and have a lot of dialogue and character already.  The plot is simple.  It is really more the gesture of a plot with a single focus and a strong sense of the conflict.  I've been a bit hesitant about the very beginning, but I know how it starts in a general sense.  It is just getting the right line to begin it.  There are still questions that I have about things in it, and about how far to push certain aspects of the characters.  I don't want to go in the direction of making things too extreme in a way that feels overly pointed or silly, as the play is already a bit of a satire.  I want it to feel tense, though, and a bit eerie, as the central conceit is to somewhat dark.  I think that I can get it right, and I feel prepared to do the work necessary.  I need to get t

It Must Arrive at Once there is not another way, not any longer.  The chance for another way has been lost.  It was untaken, so now, it must arrive at once. It is due, is needed. Do not consider  the other path: it was not taken, is barred.  It no longer exists. Do not think of it. Thinking of it will not help. What must be done to make certain it arrives, to make certain all of it arrives, consider that. but, more, take action.

I am getting down to the wire for the play submission and I haven't done enough work on my script yet.  In some ways, that is not unusual.  I often find myself allowing deadlines to stalk me, as though I enjoy the pressure that is created when I have only just enough time for the task at hand.  A part of me rebels against starting until it is truly necessary, and I wish I could break that habit for myself.  It is the same thing that I do each day with my poetry, where I wait until the end of the day and do all the work before it is too late.  It is funny, I suppose, to say I am a procrastinator when anyone who reads this blog or is otherwise familiar with my writing habits would see that I am also quite productive, but the truth is, that is a result of my structuring deadlines for myself.  I use my procrastination, or work around it, perhaps.  I know that, for me, procrastinating is often a response to the stress I feel at starting work.  I am often flustered, not certain where to

Once It Was Home It will not, again, be possible for me to return to that place, to those rooms: they will be locked, gone from the map of places I may go. I cannot return again, am too far  and will not be there until it is too late, until the key is turned by a stranger's hand. It is not gone yet, but I can do nothing, am forever away, am never to go there, except in memories of what can no longer be.

Though I have been focusing on other projects, I am still finding myself thinking a great deal about a new, larger writing project.  I think that I might be coming to understand it better, at least on the deep level that lies beneath the story itself.  I have a lot of ideas that are starting to fold together around the story, not specifics yet, but the underpinnings that help me to get a clearer sense of how to guide the work.  I am starting to think about how it might be structured in a way that allows the central story to include other stories within it, and the general sense of the journey that the central character is going to encounter.  Certain themes and ideas are also becoming clear to me, and I am getting glimpses of more specifics, but they come through in small glimpses right now.  It is a strange thing, but at times, I will have a strong sense of the work, with specifics seeming to be clear, but that only lasts a moment or so and I have only a general sense of it afterwards

Will The Need Be Filled By What Is Offered? It is all that can be given, is all that is possible, at least now.  If there were time, there would be a chance for more, but it must be done, must be given if it is to be accepted.  It is an offering, it is the offering that is possible. Will it be accepted?  Can it be enough?

I received a digital proof for the Atlanta Review that my poem is appearing in later this year.  It was quite exciting.  It didn't change anything, of course, but the feeling of seeing the work as it will appear was a bit of a thrill.  It is nothing, of course, compared to the actual publication coming out, but it is a step towards that, and seeing it on the page even felt "real."  I received the acceptance and have been aware that it would be published, but it was an exciting reminder.  The journal is, I believe, going to be out in December, and I know that holding a journal with my work in it will be something, but I hadn't expected to respond to this in the way I did.

This Offering, Am I Invited and if I partake, what is changed in what I am, of course, but also, what is changed by my inclusion, what does it mean for what is constructed if some part is open to be for me? Or do I miss the point, is it already a place I can belong, am I a part, already, am I there whether I choose or not? I do not know if I should accept. I am not certain you want me to, am not certain at all what matters here, what is needed to be certain of the intention. Those who know will already understand, won't they?

 The new play is coming together, at least in terms of the actual concepts and how to make it work.  I've yet to do a lot of the actual writing, but I feel alright about that, to be honest.  I didn't feel that I was aware of the characters and motivations, but now I've got a better grasp on that, and even though I've not put anything into writing in a formal way, I have run through any number of scenes and can hear the characters in dialogue with each other in my mind.  I think much of it is actual already composed, but I still have one or two aspects of it that are not quite clear to me, in terms of the starting motivations for certain characters that drive the situation of the play to its start.  See, the main action concerns a couple seeking some financial assistance, and I am still working out the specifics behind their need.  I have a few ideas for it, or at least for some of it, but I am not quite sure, though, as I write this, it is coming to me, more and more, a

The Need Is Known It is not a matter to be questioned, is already acknowledged: the need for intervention was admitted, is agreed upon, but the willingness to do as need necessitates, to respond as expected, or at all, that is still absent though it was determined this is a need that requires addressing, and it is clear who is responsible, who has been enlisted to bring this to fulfillment: all this is obvious.  Everyone knows who must act and what actions they must take, all that is clear, is not in doubt, but nothing happens, again and again. It is spoken of, they say it will be done, that things will change, but nothing occurs, as was the point, as you intended from the start of this whole exchange.

I wish I had some degree of confidence in the directions I want to go with my work right now.  That is, I am filled with ideas, often, with thoughts for what I might create, and I believe in those ideas on an artistic level, but I also realize I need to find some kind of fulfillment in terms of getting the work out there, in terms of building an audience and a career that feels more significant to me.  I am not wanting to be a commercial writer, to throw away my ambitions for the work, but I have plenty of different thoughts in mind and I want to choose something to pursue that has potential to bring that together.  I know I won't be satisfied with just creating the work, and I also know I would not be happy just having success with writing that didn't actual mean anything to me, but that does not mean that their are not considerations in both directions that are worthwhile.  The play that I am working on brings this up for me, because I know the theater that it is for and have

After The Finish, Before The Start I do not want to turn from this to that, not so soon, not in the moment when this is over, when one darkness has begun to rise and another calls for its chance to become. I wish to wait, to be here, to hold with the calm, the quiet that waits after all the rest has been settled, the alone of it, the quiet is right for being present, for being with myself and without the needs that shine so bright, they can wait. I will not turn away as soon as it is done, will not rush off from what has been done. It is not enough to complete the task, there is more, there is much that only happens when sitting with it, much that is part that only can occur when it seems over.

I think I may have decided on what I want to do for this new play which is a different direction than I had been considering.  A while back, I wrote a piece which another writer suggested might be a good base for a play.  At the time, while I agreed with them, I wasn't yet ready to tackle the project, and hadn't really put together how to make it work in my head.  Now, though, I think I might see a way to put it together.  The first idea that came to me in adapting it is to just take what already exists and shift it into a play form with a narrative chorus that play the characters.  I am going to play with that, but I am also thinking that their might be a way to condense into a single scene that extemporizes much of the rest of the story.  It may be that I can find a way to hybridize those two approaches, or that a new concept of how to put this together emerges.  The original piece is satirical and absurd, telling a story about a man driving the business he inherited from his

There Is Another Waiting Down there, in that corner, off alone, there is another who is waiting.  Feel it, the need, the calling need, for one thing to end and another to begin, for this to be over. There is another waiting, it is clear.  It cannot be helped, cannot be escaped, but it is there, is another pressing bit, adds to what is already here. Another is waiting. Always, that is so, but still, it is to be done as it must be done, or what good is it to do at all? They are waiting: do not forget what may bring their chance.

I have an idea for the short play I might write, but I am concerned that it is a bit too much of a sketch.  I think there are ways to make it work, even within a sort of comical premise, by making certain to give the characters actual depth, allowing something real to exist between them.  I am hesitant though, as I do think this piece might be too flat, with the premise itself being the main driver.  At the same time, I don't have anything else jumping out at me right now, so it is sort of what I have to go on.  It might be that I can find something new by exploring this idea, or maybe this will bloom in ways I am not even expecting.  Even if it is not quite what I want it to be, the act of working on it may be enough to get my creativity flowing in the right direction to get something more suitable started.  Besides, I don't feel that this initial idea is bad, it is only that it feels flat, as if it is being driven on the single idea at the start, but there are ways to change

Methods Who can say if it is better, it is the way that I prefer, though that itself may be habit, only, it might mean nothing about the value of it. Others have ways, have preferences. It may all be affect. Nothing may be beneath.

I have my new machine and it is all calibrated and ready to go.  It is a bit silly to feel excited to get some sleep, but after so long being tired, I can't deny it is kind of a thrilling prospect.  I have had only the lightest sleep for so long, but tonight, I should have access to the deeper realms of.  I wonder what kinds of dreams I will have, now that my mind will be free to dream without the panic of needing to wake and breath again.

It Has Been Mostly Rain Today, but not heavy rain, not long lines of drops, falling streams to drown and drench. No, just persistent wet, small beads, just too fat to be a mist.  But all day, and with a bit of darkness, too.  Not sunshades, no, the mood of a storm, the shadow glum of a day that is best for being indoors. There was no great storm, though, only the sense of it being about to begin.

I am quite excited to announce that my new bipap machine finally arrived today, which should mean that, at last, I will be able to get some real sleep, the sort that allows a person to wake up rested and refreshed.  I have to wait one more night to be able to use it, unfortunately, as it needs to be calibrated and adjusted and I am told I need to be taught how to use it (though I have used similar machines for many years).  Seeing as I already have an appointment for the morning, it is not too big of a deal, though it would be best if I could get it setup immediately.  Still, after so long being without real sleep, it feels like I am on the verge of a miracle.  When I was first diagnosed with sleep apnea and started using a cpap, I felt an incredible change.  It was not only that I was no longer feeling exhausted all the time, though that was a tremendous shift itself, there was a shift in the quality of experiences, in my ability to think and attend what I experienced.  My senses seem

It Began, But It Was Best to Go Back Again, to make as if it had not been, to remove the banging from below, the sighs, the rustling, the scraping. It was best to not have that, to set it aside and step back, turn it all back, remove each trace, begin again.  The circle was clear enough, drawn well. There was a way to return in each direction, a way that could be called back even if it was forward, but which way was that one? The only way to know was what was gone. the landmarks made had been removed, so any path, now, might be progress,  might be regress. Did it even matter: they all led to the origin.

I have been getting a much clearer sense about the new fiction project that I've been discussing, and have started to get a real sense of the story and its structure. It has a lot to it, and I am not certain that I can describe it all that well, but I do feel quite close to being able to begin. Ironically, though, I have another bit of writing that is going to have to take priority, as I've got the opportunity, once more, to submit a short play for inclusion in a local new play festival. The deadline is quite soon, so I need to really get busy.  I think I might be able to get a significant amount of progress done by the end of the weekend, but first I need to narrow down just what I want to submit.  I have an idea, but I am not sure how it will develop, and feel I need to give it a push further.  I think that a longer play can, at times, have a more subtle premise, but in a short piece, it has to be bigger.  A long play has time for nuance, can build slowly from a subtle sta

Disembarking The Boat I fell once, a boy rushing his steps, even at that edge, and I dropped, slipped between boat and doc, held what I could grasp to not sink beneath, but being there, even remaining above, unsubmerged and still breathing was not relief, not there, in the tight space between with the great forms that trapped me, threatened to huddle closer, to crush me or force me down. I was snatched clear, though, was pulled back out before there was harm. I do not recall whose hand it was, it did not matter in that moment, though now I wish I remembered.

I am happy to report that Melissa is indeed home.  I'm not going to write much more on here tonight, as I am longing to get back to spending some time with her.  I did do my usual work, writing a number of new poems tonight, but I am perfectly willing to let this blog be just a few lines on occasion, and this seems like an appropriate time for that.

It Did Not Happen, but it is not forgotten, is better remembered than much else, though, as was said, it never happened, never came to be, was all possibility, a ghost even before it would have ended, a not at all thing that haunts still, that remains as alive as ever because it was not, did not become lost in the details of a world that is so solid.  It remains, is still as it was. It may be a loss it was not more, or is this best?

Melissa's flight was cancelled today, but she has rebooked and should arrive tomorrow night.  I can't deny that I am disappointed.  It is strange, on one hand, I know that she has been gone so long, one day is not a major difference, but also she has been gone for long enough that even another day feels like far too long to keep waiting.  There is, of course, nothing to be done about it, though.  I am just going to have to wait. At least it does seem her flight tomorrow remains on the schedule.

Disordered What was intended for tomorrow came today while what was for today will wait, again, has been delayed.  It is too much disorder, the joints should bend, but along proper angles. Now, there is only waiting, again, more, waiting for what should have been already, worrying that what was not due  has come too soon, out of time with what was intended.   It will be fine, though, yes, fine and good, if things goes as they should, if today's disappointment is rectified tomorrow.