Would That I Might

I pushed myself to write some more diverse poems this evening, to take what I have been working towards in new directions.  I want to be able to keep digging deeper, but while pushing into areas beyond the same set of ideas.  It is easy to get under the surface of some things, when the feelings there are already heated and raw, but that often has the danger of becoming self-indulgent.  I don't want to write poems that are solely about my wants, or that only look at small problems in my world, and even when I do go in those directions, I hope I can find greater resonance and not just come off as, at best, plaintiff or, more likely, whiny.  At the same time, I recognize the power of allowing myself to explore that kind of work, how it contrasts with a lot of my less personal poetry.  It is about gaining comfort with that vulnerability, and with learning to go deeper into areas that may be uncomfortable or messy.  Tonight, I was able to push the work further in that effort, or it felt

You Did Not Seem Supportive when it was possible, seemed disinterested or skeptical, never expressed any interest or enthusiasm, not at all, but it cannot be, now, the chance went away, choices were made that went in other ways, so now, you will say, when I express my hurt that it cannot be, that what will be instead will not ever seem right, now, you will tut, say it is unfortunate, will speak as one who is disheartened, as though you do not know the part you played in making it so it never happened.

I am glad to find that I am wrapping up my work early tonight.  It is kind of surprising, to be honest.  Looking at the clock, I expected it to be later, thought I had been less expedient, but I must have started at an earlier hour than I thought, and, perhaps, was more efficient with my writing than I had believed.  I am glad, though, as I know it will be good for me to get to bed early and try to get a decent night of sleep.  I have been so stressed out and overwhelmed, i am glad to have finished so I can take some time to rest.

Cold Feet I would be there, again, or, even, still, but for the cold.  My feet do not like it, will ache.  I can take the cold on my legs, even my cheeks are fine, but my feet, my toes.  I have socks, shoes, am not exposing them, but the cold gets through, undeterred. It is nice to be there, is good, is the place I would go now, a place to feel free, to feel air, to breath deep, let the world enter my lung. I want that again, but for ny feet and the cold.

I found it hard getting to work tonight, but I think that may reflect the difficulty I am having with expressing some of my current experiences.  I find it hard to even explain the things I am struggling with, to put them down in a coherent or direct way, much of the time, but I feel as if I am getting closer in my poetry.  I was able to write several poems that delved into subjects and feelings I am often afraid to write about, and I am glad for that.  I just wish I could find a way to shift from these things in a real way, to move forward from this, but I know that much of this is a response to the circumstances I am in and a result of things I can't change.  But, I also know, things cannot improve without those things changing.

I Want My Doubt's to Be Aside You say you know how and I will trust you, will believe it is so. I do not think it is a lie, do not believe that. You would not lie, but I could believe it is not the truth, that you are wrong, that you think you know, but only think you do, will find it too difficult, will not be able to do it. I worry.  Always,  I am worrying, but I will choose not to, will choose to trust you, until I know better for certain.

I have been trying to explore some of my fears in my poems, trying to be more direct and lay things bare on the page.  In some ways, the themes and ideas are not different, it is more a matter of perspective.  I am trying to push aside some of the emotions and attitudes that I use as forms of protection for myself.  It is not easy to face things, sometimes, and I am not intending to do this for some sort of psychological reason, at least not as far as I am aware, but more because I am hoping it will help me to reach a deeper level in my writing, and perhaps lead me past an inner block that I sometimes feel around revealing too much of myself.  As well, I am very much afraid at the moment.  I am feeling defeated and don't know what to do to change things for the better, am afraid of things remaining as they have been.  I feel stuck, and many of the steps that are accessible feel pointless right now, or, even, dangerous.  I am awate of what I want to change, what I am seeking, but I

Kintsugi  Shattered into pieces blasted apart and broken up, scattered into shards: how can it come back, be one again, together, all returned and restored: how can it come to be itself again? It will take more, will take work, finding, restoring, cannot be the same again: must have more to make it so, has lost itself, has broken, is not singular, has had that taken, but the pieces can be mended together, can be put back into place. It will not be as it was, but it can be again, can return, can be what it was, but not the same, not the same thing it was, but that agaim, anew, with what is broken as a part, as an element of what it is now, honoring what once was I'm what it has become.

I have had a terrible headache most of the day and am hoping to get to bed early tonight.  I pushed myself to do my writing right after dinner and I am glad to be finishing up.  I hope that a good night's sleep will be all I need, but even just feeling a bit under is kind of frightening these days.  I think it is just stress, to be honest, but I will see how I am doing in the morning.

I Am Ready to Begin We spoke of it, agreed it should begin, said we would start, but then: nothing. I am waiting for you, need the proof of your initiation, the evidence of your intent, will not take the step, will not.  It is necessary for you to do it, to show commitment. But, you have done nothing, have said nothing. I am waiting for you, hoping you understand, hoping you don't think you should wait on me.

I have selected the poems I think I am going going send to Nickole for my conference with her.  I tried to pick a variety of work, some more serious and ambitious, some lighter, even a bit silly.  It is difficult to pick just a few poems, and it becomes a bit arbitrary at some point, since I can't really look at everything and make a completely thorough search for exactly the right poems.  Even more, I can't say what it would mean to pick the perfect packet to share.  Nickole knows me and has seen examples of my work over the past few years, and I trust her as a guide for the work, and that is about more than the specific pieces we look at.  Still, I can't help but get nervous as if there is really one proper answer.

I Did Not Go I was not prepared, was too worn, too tired, so I did not go, chose to retreat, to take time for healing, or, at least, for restoration, charging up, gathering my own energy. It was what I needed, but I know, you had to go, you could not choose yourself, and I wish I had been strong enough. I chose for myself, chose what I knew I needed, but I should have gone, should have considered you would be left alone.

I am exhausted tonight.  We flew up to Columbus, arriving with just enough time to make a run to the supermarket before things shutdown for Christmas.  I made dinner, here, at Melissa's mother's house, and was already tired enough I was tempted to just get to bed, but I did my writing.  Now, though, I think I am going to call it for tonight.

That It Was Forgotten Is A Lie It was abandoned,  they chose to leave it or call it untrue, or just act as though it had not been known. It seemed the easier way, since nothing would be done, since they saw no way forward, it seemed best not to know, though each one wept, wished they could speak the truth, could appeal this.  Each one, but only alone, never before another. None of them would understand: they had already chosen that it should not be known.

Tomorrow morning, Melissa and I are going to be heading up to Ohio again so we can see her mother.  We have flown a few times in the past year, but it is a rather fraught thing to be doing right now.  Unfortunately, their isn't really a great alternative for us.  With the omicron variant, of course, it feels a lot more dangerous to travel now, but we take precautions as best we can and I am bolstered knowing that airplane cabins are considered to be largely safe, perhaps the safest indoor space to share with other people.  The bigger issue is the airport, of course.  At least we are able to stay at Ann's house instead of a hotel, which does reduce our general exposure during the trip.  We have our N95 masks ready to go, so we should be safe, I think.  It is scary, of course, and I feel a bit irresponsible, in some ways, but I also know we have to go.  We need to be there for Ann, so we are going, and we are mitigating the risk the best we can.  

I Caught Myself Soon Enough that I did stray too far, and now I am returned to the intended course, am back on task, again, diligent, dutiful, dedicated, all those things and more, but just for now, just because I know it must be done, or should be done, is due to be done, is my chosen task, is what I promised myself I would do, would finish. I don't know if it matters. I want it to matter, but I am not certain. It matters to me. I wish that could be enough. I am doing it, am dedicated to it, but maybe that is a waste. I don't want this time to be only an indulgence, to be stealing away from the world for what only matters to me. I don't want to be that selfish, but I know I am here. It would be no good to not be here, to stop. I know that would harm me, though it is not any good to go on with any of this if it is only for myself.

I find it quite frustrating to be told that I need to be careful about making certain I follow all the guidelines for submissions with care.  I understand that publishers are asking to facilitate their process, and I do not want to be difficult, yet, as a person who is neuro-diverse, I have a great deal of difficulty with these instructions.  At the same time, I know that complaining will not get me anywhere.  First of all, it is difficult to explain the problems I encounter.  The issues would sound trivial to most people.  I often have to stare at a visual form for several minutes before I can begin to interpret it, overwhelmed before I even start, and I am never confident that I am filling it out properly.  The process is overwhelming and stressful, and I have a strong aversion to it at this point.  I want to submit work, but the process of doing so is inherently alienating and intimidating, and I am afraid that even expressing that will only result in being told, once more, "th

The Doors Were Open but I was not ready, did not go through: the doors were open, I could wait, prepare, there was not a rush. I was not ready, I needed to prepare for what was beyond. It was prudence: why be rash? Why rush? The doors were open. I wanted to go through, but I needed to be certain, to be sure I was ready. I took my time, prepared myself. I did what was necessary, but now, when I am certain, now: the doors have closed. It would have been no good if I had rushed through, I was never ready then, and now it is too late.

I am going to keep this rather short tonight, as it is getting late and I'm tired.  I've written my five poems for the evening, as well as the work on this blog, and just want to get myself ready for bed.  It can be draining to keep doing this each night, but I know it is important, even if I don't always feel that great about the individual poems.  I don't know if anything I wrote tonight has merit, but I am glad I didn't just blow off the effort.  It can be tempting to not do the work, and I have, at least once or twice, skipped out on things without it being a problem, but I know the importance of sustaining this effort.  It is not about the individual writing sessions but about maintaining my practice.  While a poem is, of course, a result of a specific effort, I know, as well, that any individual piece of writing owes itself to the larger context, both in the direct sense that I am writing as a result of this committed stance, and in a less concrete way as a re

If You Want to Fix This to repair the damage you've done, it requires restoring what is gone, but what is gone was a chance to build, to make, to prepare, and it is gone. To fix it, I need back what you destroyed, what would have been that is not possible now. If you want to say you care, if you want to pretend it was a mistake you mean to fix, if any of that is what you want, if your words are not lies told now when it is too late, if you want intend to act, the act that is needed is one I cannot imagine. I can tell you what I need, but not how to achieve it, and you will do nothing, will say I am impossible, but you made this, you chose to make this. It was clear what would come, it was not a secret.  You knew, but now, it is done, and you want to be forgiven. You want me to live with it, these consequences that cage me, that each day remain upon me, you want to do nothing to relieve me from it, but I should forgive you, yes, I should say it is alright, should give you a pass on

I want to get to work on some essays.   I have been considering a number of ideas, but I have not started writing, and until I get something on the page, it doesn't matter.  There is an apprehension, a fear, around this work, but I am not certain what it is.  Even so, I am sure I can get myself over it by doing the work.  For one thing, the momentum of the work itself can take over at a certain point.  If I can get stuck in, can push past the first bump, it changes tenor and I can keep on without the same degree of difficulty.  For another, the writing itself will, inherently, reveal what is there, whatever that fear is.  I know that I am not writing these things in public, the way I do with this blog, so I can keep things to myself, but I suspect, once I can recognize the fear, it will be the concern of facing it myself that was holding me back and not some sense of vulnerable self-exposure.

Birthday It had been a fine day, quiet, too.  That was enough. Melissa and I went out, had lunch together. She gave me my gift, a kintsuge set so I mag restore broken things and honor the breaking. All that was good, was enough. But it was the ending. Dinner, with my mother and my brother.  My birthday dinner, with my family, but even in the car, sitting in the back with Melissa, they chatted together, spoke of things between them, did not even consider our inclusion.  It was not all the same.  It was not that, not exactly that,  but I always questioned if they think of me as one of the family.

Tomorrow, which begins in about half an hour, is my birthday.  I am not all that enthused, if we are to be blunt about it, but I want to be.  A part of me still holds out for the hope of it being a good day, being fun and surprising, but I am also not wanting to expect much.  In truth, it is more just the sense that my feelings around my family are rather bruised at the moment, and I am feeling quite out of sorts about other aspects of my living situation at the moment.  The one thing I am glad about is having Melissa here, and that is the best thing of all.  I need to let her know this, and to make sure she understands.  I know I have been venting a lot of my feelings towards her, because I don't feel empowered to express them to the relevant parties, and I need to find a way to release more of these things in ways that don't burden her.  If I can make things better for Melissa, that will be a thing that brings me joy, even more than anything I could receive for myself.  I mus

The Flowers Have Not Bloomed They are tended, are given all that is said to be within their needs, and in the quantities said to be proper,.  Even the light that reaches those leavees is the proper light, I am told.  Everyhing, I am told, is proper. Still, their is not a bloom, not one has come out. I ask what is wrong and am told nothing, but I want to hear what can be corrected, They never bloom if nothing is wrong in how I tend them this barrenness is far worse.

I think tonight will be another rather short entry on here.  I am feeling worn out, and I am also in a bit of a mood and have no desire to go over the same complaints and concerns again and again.  For me, these things become like a riddle that I need to solve, and if their is not a solution, that means doom, and I get stuck on them over and over and can't change it, so tonight, I am just wanting to not voice it, even though it is all playing around in my mind the same way.  It is not as if I don't try to express it or move forwards with it, but that doesn't help, because nothing is going to offer the real answer, I don't think, and without that, it just becomes an obsessive spiral, and I don't want more of that.  I want to get beyond it, but the only beyond, but I can't, I can only imagine getting to the other side of the puzzle, finding a way to get that solution.  And here I am going on about it again, though maybe I have a better understanding right at this

The Pan Remains In The Oven but it should be cool now, should not be as hot, but will I remember that it is there? I hope so, I must, it needs to be put away, not left there all night, and I should stop, should do it now, but I am here, it is there. It can wait a few more minutes, it is not chicken or pork, is potatoes and some broccoli, it can wait, but can my mind find a way to do other things and then return or will I do this and forget, become distracted, or will the distraction be the pan and its need, the distraction keeping me from doing this entirely, from being here and not thinking the pan is there, is in the oven and must be dealt with.

I am feeling good about the poems I am writing at the moment, at least in a general sense.  If I were to pull one out to examine it, I might feel less enthused, but the sense I have as I write them is itself a measure, for me.  It is a suspect measure, one that can mislead, in some ways, but the feeling of the work expanding and deepening is not usually deluded.  I feel close to something, as if I am circling and may land soon at the center.  It is a sense of impending discovery, and I am excited.  I know the key is in allowing it to happen, as it can be a fragile process, but it feels like I am on the cusp of something important.  I am excited to realize just what that might be.

He Saw A Spider Scurry over the roof of some car that sat idle in the dark, but I did not see it, looked too late or not where it was, I only heard him speak of it, I cannot say the size, the color, can guess at species from our locale, but I did not see it at all, and he has forgotten, now. I remember it, remember what he saw that I did not, am still wondering what creatures lurk right before my unnoting eyes.

So much of the time as a poet, I find myself circling around the same ideas.  This is a normal state, I think, and much in line with a comment by Stanley Kunitz to the effect that all poets have around two poems, that everything else is variations on those pieces.  There are things which feel impossible to communicate well, but which must be said, and finding the way to get it out, to make it a thing that can be shared, that is often the goal that a poem seeks to fulfill.  These ideas do not disappear, though, they remain, haunting the mind and needing to be let free, perhaps because it seems as if a previous effort was not right, or because some new perspective has emerged or another aspect of what is there, or just because the underlying ideas have come back into mind.  It can be odd to find oneself caught in these orbits, and it can feel a bit obsessive at times, most certainly in the context of one who writes as much as I tend to, as it is quite easy to fall into a rhythm, churning

What Has Been Done We can agree these things have happened, are both aware that what has been done is, cannot become a thing that is not: more may be done, but that is all, there is no way to undo these acts. We agree: it has happened, is done, cannot be reversed.  Yes, we agree, only, you think that is a reason I must accept it and say it is fine. You knew.  It was not unspoken, was not a secret.  You knew, were told what it would mean, and I think, I cannot help thinking, that was a reason for it, was a part. You harmed me, though I asked you, though it had been spoken of, you chose to do harm.  Now, the harm has come, is here: it did not end, has not abated. It is here, is real, cannot be unmade, cannot be taken away, is not different. And because it cannot be made better, because it has not been made better, you think that is a good reason for me to say this was all fine.

I have been finding it difficult to focus on larger pieces of writing lately.  I have ideas for stories, novels, essays, all sorts of longer works that I want to get written, but I am not having a lot of success in doing it.  When I say longer works, I should be clear that, while some are ideas I think might be substantial enough to be books, longer is, in this case, is not that lofty.  Most of my poems are less than a page, and even those that go past that limit are usually penned in a sitting.  That is the place where I might be struggling right now: keeping that focus and energy over a longer period of time when I must hold it between writing sessions.  I think a large part of the issue is related to my feeling a bit drained at present.  Things have been rough, and I feel very stuck right now.  I feel as if I am working and working with nothing to show for it, and that makes it difficult not to feel a bit put off about the work.  With a single poem, I can just push through, but it t

You Will Speak of wanting better, of wanting to do and make, of changing. It is in your words, is at the ready, the tongue  holds those shapes, keeps them warm, prepared.   You will speak them, will say it and swear it is so, is what is meant, is what you want to do, is the way forward, and I think it is meant, is not only said, is not just words. It is not that you are lying, it is that you do not know what it would mean to do as you say.

One of the reasons why I like to write a poem each day on this blog is because it forces me to push out work without being precious about it.  In many cases, a poem will go through a lot of work, and it can take many rounds of revision to feel a piece is truly done.  I write a great deal, but before I send work out for submissions, I will look it over and make changes, and will hold back on pieces that I don't feel are ready.  That is an important aspect of this work.  Many poets have left behind drafts of their work, and reading through drafts on a beloved poem can be so enlightening.  It shows the labor that is involved and how far a work can be propelled through careful revision.  At the same time, it is easy to become stuck, to be trapped in that process and never knowing what is ready or should be left as it is.  I always learn from writing, and from rewriting.  These are the things that teach me to be a better writer tomorrow than I was today, which is a positive thing, but a

Again, This Boundary What good is there in improvement if doing better at the task itself does not correlate to obtaining the desired results?  Why should I try? Why continue with any of it at all if what is required to gain is beyond grasp, is there, but cannot be obtained, can only be bestowed, can only come when it comes, and with no reason, without consideration for what is already? It is impossible, now, to turn another way, to choose a different path that is equal: this has become the way, my heart is here, buried deep in the dirt, tendrils grasping, twisting like roots, pumping the deep red of life, pushing it forth here.  I am of this, now, will not seek any other way, will not or can not, or is that not important? I do not know which it is, know less what is better or worse if either, but I know I am here, and this place, it is the place I must be, but I must also find a way  to make it flourish, to grow not only in the tasks themselves but in what they bring. That must come t

One of the complaints that my brother and I have shared around our mother is her predilection for making phone calls in the car.  Many times I have gone to pick her up for one thing or another and had her get in the car without even saying hello because she is on the phone, and signaling for me to drive, as if I am her chauffeur.  She just talks on her phone, not wanting to be interrupted, as if no one else is even there.  As I said, my brother has had similar experiences, and it is one of the things we have both complained about in that regard.  Considering that our relationship has been strained of late, and that I have been feeling pushed away by both he and my mother, it seemed an important, if small, thing that I could complain about this repeated behavior to him.  Today, though, my brother did the exact same thing to me.  I had driven him to the hardware store to get some things that wouldn't fit in his tiny car, and as soon as we were on the way back, without even saying any

The Truth of It All Starts to Roll Out begins to bubble up, to percolate, to spit, spatter, sputter forth, and it seems, yes, it will be now, but then, a twist, a shift away, a disappearing act, or not that, not disappearance, not gone, just amorphous, out of the line of understanding, it turns, shifts, warps in the mind, is unexpressable, though it was clear, was there, is there, it has stolen away all the relevant words.

It is always a bit strange to go back through work, not only in the ways I mentioned last night, but also in the sense that I am writing so much, I don't recognize so much of the work directly.  It is more than just not remembering every single poem, but even more, as I look at groups of poems that were composed at the same time, it is clear that they are part of a poetic phase I don't recall.  I mean to say, they seem to be exploring modes of work that I moved through, but which I don't fully recall.  Often, I am playing in different ways as I write, and it is not all that hard to understand how trends can arise, patterns of interest or exploration that follow certain possibilities within my writing and focus on certain modes and topics.  These can take many shapes, of course, but they are not usually a conscious decision.  In most cases, I just find an obsession arises that plays out for a time.  In the end, I move on, but that is not to say that their isn't change or

Your Choice You will say it is not right to make you  stay here, to live through the consequences of your choice, that I only want you to remain for suffering, but you chose, you did this knowing wll the suffering it would cause, knowing it. It was clear, and now: you cannot go run for relief leaving us here in your aftermath. Did you do this to make us suffer, do you wish to go so you can add abandonment to our lot?

I need to select the poems I am going to use for my one-on-one meeting with Nickole Brown.  These meetings are always something I value a great deal, and that makes it even more difficult to choose only ten poems.  I have to spend a few days looking and thinking about it, but I am sure I can figure it out.  The thing is, I am torn, because I want to demonstrate my work in a real way, but I also know that I want guidance on poems that are not working yet, that I can feel are off.  If I already believed them to be at the point of perfection, I wouldn't be asking for help.  I think, my goal is to always pick the poems whose aspirations and intent feel the highest, the poems I most want to get right, but which are also, still, not reaching their aims, at least to me.  I am sure that spending a bit of time looking back through my poems will help me decide, it is just that I find looking over the work difficult at times.  I have heard some actors discuss not watching their own performanc

What Will Have Been Beginning again is not the fun way, but is the way it must be at those times when an end has come too soon, and nothing else is after it, but later,  isn't so, later, when it was over and another start was all there was how it was all one, how it came to be part of the whole. Do not worry now, there is enougu with the rest, with the wants of any moment contained here, now, that is all true, is how it is and will be, but it will be recalled by other moments that cannot be known, but have shapes that can be guessed, have ways of knowing that come to be. It is starting, but that is not to say things have ended, or if they have that ending itself is only a thing to be known for now. Later, it never was.

I am not up to writing very much on here tonight, am barely holding it together right now.  It is my Dad's birthday and I miss him so much.  It is a strange thing for me, as my Dad's death is also a major inflection point in the world in ways that go beyond the personal.  He passed away just before Trump became a major Republican candidate for president, just when the political reality here in the United States shifted so dramatically.  In many ways, for me, it feels as if the death of my father was the catalyst for the world sliding into craziness.  Things now are so alien from what they were when he was alive.  I need to write more on this, I know, and I have tried, but I don't think that I can tonight.  I can only say how much I miss him, how much I feel his absence from the world each day.  I wish I could even must the strength to talk about him right now, to share some stories about him, explain who he was a bit, but in truth, it is all jumbled up and I feel as if any

You Knew The Harm but acted anyway, did as you wished, though it was betrayal. You had your wants, did not care at all about the promise made, You made a choice, and now,  you want forgiveness, but it remains true, the act remains, the harm done by what you chose is still an open wound and you cannot close it by running away: it cannot be undone. If you wish to fix it, I have no answer. I want it fixed too, want it to be better. But it is a fact, now, is the world's: we haven't a choice to make it right, though it remaining is too much. I want to forgive, but for that to happen things must change, must be made better, be made right. I do not know how. I want it to be better, but I can't trust you again until you fix what you have broken, but I believe not to be a thing that can be repaired. Still, I am here with you, so maybe.

I still don't know what is up in terms of my hard drive; my brother got his booster yesterday and woke up feeling a bit off, so he wasn't able to work on it today.  He actually offered to come over at one point, but he told me he was having chills and a headache, and I didn't think it was reasonable to ask him to work on it when he is feeling sick.  I am not certain if he was offering because he wanted to have something to do, or if he was concerned that I would be upset about it. It is not a pressing matter for me, though it is important.  Either the files are there or they are not recoverable at the moment.  Whichever is true does not impact me in this moment.  I don't have a dire need for that work.  It isn't as if this is a manuscript that I have to turn in right away, it is more the fear of losing the work overall, but I can wait a day or so for that.  It kind of upsets me to imagine my brother thinks I would demand he work when he is feeling ill in that way, b

You Mention It as if I know, as if you have said, but why would I know? You never speak of what matters when I am near, have made clear your preference to exclude me for your convenience, and now I see: it is instinct to never tell me, is so automatic you forget what you have done.

The issue on my computer is with one hard drive, but otherwise it should be fine.  Of course, that drive contains a lot of writing, and I am not certain if it is all backed up properly or not.  I thought it was backing up automatically, but I am not entirely certain that is true after some of what happened last night.  I have to hope that the drive data will be recoverable, or that I can find evidence that all the files on it exist in safe copies elsewhere.  I need to print out everything, I know, so I have paper copies of it all, but it is a lot to print, and I don't have a very good printer at the moment.  My last office printer died a few years ago, and I haven't replaced it.  We have a little all in one printer, but it wouldn't be any good to try and print out the thousands of poems I have on here, along with all the other work as well.  It would likely be enough to wear it out fully, and, even if it didn't, I can't imagine the number of days it would take, espe

Do Not Lose What Was Given: It Is Important Giving it was important, was trust, if it is lost think what else will be lost too, think what it means. I tell you: it is important, not only the thing, but what it means that you have it, that you were given it to never lose, to have and keep safe. There were others, but you have it now: do you understand? The thing itself matters, yes, but there is more.

I had a bit of a fright tonight, as my computer was having a problem with saving documents.  I was not certain what was happening, but it seemed as if the computer was saving things, but when I went to open the documents they were not there or wouldn't open.  I thought I might have lost a number of poems and was frantically looking to find recovery backups.  Fortunately, with some help from my brother, I was able to find versions of the missing files and actually save them.  There is still a problem, but it seems to be confined to one drive on the pc and not the whole machine, so I can at least use the machine, though I am making certain to save things in more reliable ways.  Tomorrow, I think my brother is coming by to take a look and fix the underlying problem, so hopefully it will all be resolved soon.

One Is Gone, But Another Comes Another who will take the same stance, will be present at all the times when a lack might be noted, might cause a deviation. It must be this way.  One is gone, but the requirements are the same, nothing changes in the circumstances. All that remains is still as it was, all that had been is still, keeps all the same constituency. Another must come: though it has changed, has been required to adapt, it is only changing to keep things as they have been.

I used my insights from yesterday to push myself into work again tonight, and it worked quite well.  Even more, I feel as if the work itself was valuable.  I don't mean that I am certain the poems are good, rather that I felt I was doing something real, was reaching towards new ideas.  So much of the time I feel stuck inside my own small world, even when I am writing poetry.  It is natural to focus on the things that are happening, that are part of daily existence, and to want to vent about frustrations or problems that are ongoing, and that is not an invalid source for poetry, but I often want to reach for other ideas as well.  It can be, of course, that both happen at once, that the personal connects to those other themes, and that is generally what I hope for when I write, that something small can become a symbol or a way in towards another matter.  I don't know if that is exactly what happened tonight, though it did feel that some of the poems began with an intent to expres

A Shadow Keeps Stalking Me and I know it is not mine, is not the one I had before, even though it won't admit it, was nonchalant about the matter even when I was direct, confronted it with the proof, not just accusations but evidence. No, it just stayed there as though it were not hearing me, were just a normal shadow and not an impostor. I don't know what it wants but it won't leave me be. Even in the darkness, I know it is there, I feel it at my feet or as a tingle of air against my ear. You will think I am wrong but if I turn the light back on you will see it was waiting. I don't know what it wants or what it did with my real shadow.

I pushed myself to get to work tonight, and I did get started at a more reasonable point in the evening.  When I found myself distracted, after a bit of work, I took a moment but then just pushed myself to go back to work.  I wound up writing a poem about the fact that I was having trouble keeping to my work, which may not be the greatest thing I have ever come up with, but the fact that I was able to use even that to get myself back in gear was liberating.  It reminded me, in that moment, that there is always something to write about, even if it is not anything more than just a fleeting moment, and that I can even confront many of the problems I'm having with the work through the work itself.  It also was important in terms of giving myself the permission to just go with it, to accept that whatever I chose to write about in that moment was fine.  It takes a lot of the pressure off when I know I don't have anything to live up to.  I mean, sure it wasn't a great poem, or I d

The Stone Is Turned Over and then again.  It sits, always in hand, is always there to be turned, to see again the hidden side once more, and then to look upon it and wonder at that now gone, the concealed half that rests against the palm's fleshly pillow, darkened by its own shadow. Turn it again, look, see: it has not changed, has not been worried  into a new shape. It will take more time, turning it again and again. It is already smooth, was worn down long ago before it was plucked up and carried this way. It will last, can be turned and turned and turned. It is a solid thing.

I am still struggling to get my work done earlier.  Tonight, I say here for a long while just trying to get started, distracting myself with anything and everything that was not my writing.  With effort, I know I can get myself to start the work, so I am the one choosing this, in some way.  It is not as if I haven't pressed myself to do writing at times when it seemed difficult, or when I was less than inspired.  This isn't a matter of being blocked, it is more about my feelings in the moment.  I am quite scared at the moment.  I feel as if the only way to get the changes I want in my life is through finding success with my writing, and I know I've not been able to do that yet.  Even more, I don't know what I can do to make progress towards that other than what I have been doing, and what I have done so far doesn't seem to be working.  Each time I start work, I can't help but think of the amount of work already done.  I have described it before, the feeling of i

But What Do You Want? You are adept at asking questions which reveal the demanded answer, and even better at seeming uncaring about what comes in response, as if the choices are presented to be chosen and not only so you can pretend it was someone else who made the decision.

I have a large quantity of work that I need to go back over and get organized.  There is a lot of editing to do, of course, and getting the work in order will help with that.  The editing itself is always a challenging process, or maybe that is not the right word...  The difficulty often has to do with perspective, with stepping back to recognize the work from a different viewpoint.  Assessing the quality of my own writing is unpleasant, and it is impossible for me to feel objective about the work.  Recognizing what is or is not succeeding in a piece can seem impossible.  It seems strange, as I have so much work I certainly don't recall each one, but their is a quality that is always familiar, a sense about it, and that can be both hypnotizing and cringe inducing, either by turns or all at once.

What We Will Do I Do Not Know but it troubles me. I have no answer, but to say it matters, to me it matters. It should not: I feel ashamed, I know it is nothing, is not important. It would not matter if other things aligned, if what should matter could be corrected.

I am tired of hearing that there are no new ideas or new stories.  For one thing, I don't think it is a particularly useful thing to consider, even if it is true.  If I can't think of anything that is truly new, I can still think of things that are new to me, or that feel new.  I don't disagree with the idea that it is not necessary for an idea or story to be truly new in order for it to be of value, but that is not the same thing at all.  Why prescribe limits on what can be?  At best, it is just a trite saying, and at worst, it builds a box within which one must play.  Assuming all the ideas already exist, I am certain that I don't know them all, so even if it is true, that does not mean that buying into the idea isn't still limiting.  If I am certain that all the ideas have been thought up before, I am not going to look for anything different than what I know exists, which is already a subset of all the possible ideas that exist in this scenario.   The real truth

It Would Ne Nice to Not Have It Be This but this is how it has been, is how it always seems, and change is not just pointing or thinking different, or saying other words. There are outcomes and circumstances and all those things that come into play when it is the real world and a life is being lived and not just imagined, not just conceptualized. The way it is offers no chance for sustenance, for survival.  To accept it's continuance is to accept destruction. The way forward cannot be to remain in pain inducing situations without admitting it still hurts. The pain will continue: if it does not change the pain is inevitable, the destruction carries through. Do not keep suggesting I pretend it is different, pretend to even myself that it is alright for this to be how it remains.

The short play event that I was hoping to take part in has been cancelled, and I can't help but feel a bit cheated.  I can't pretend I wouldn't be upset if I had received a typical rejection, but this feels a bit different.  I don't know,, of course, the underlying circumstances that resulted in this decision, and I recognize that my responses isn't necessarily about anything real or rational, that it is my larger fears and concerns manifesting in response to this.  That doesn't change the hurt itself, though, and I do wish that the organizers had made some effort to offer personal responses under the circumstances.  They claimed low submission numbers as a reason for not holding the event, and it would be meaningful to feel they appreciated those submissions enough to provide even a small amount of personal feedback.  In the end, I just feel that I put in the work under false pretenses, and would like to believe it wasn't so fully a waste.  Really, it is al

It Was A Kindness but so long unfinished, it has turned into harm, but there is no way it will be completed: it cannot be as none remain who know and know how. Would it be better if it had remained untouched?  Who knows.