Would That I Might

Well, I failed to get to work this morning, and did not make it to my office again.  I know that I have a real block around this at the moment.  As I have mentioned before, I know this is all related to Ulysses.  Since he died, I have been adjusting to not having to care for him.  Many mornings, I still get out of bed to give him his medicine.  Beyond this, I am also aware that my office is the only place in the house he never visited.  The office is a loft and he had never learned to use stairs.  I had intended to bring him up there at some point, but he died so soon after we moved, it never came to pass.  I need to face these issues, to learn how I can move forward, but being aware of that does not make it easy.

Planning Knowing what step is best to be the first step, which to take second, third, it can be good.  It can help deciding what to do if the road from here to there is closed, or if someone says no instead of yes, or of there is not enough flour, sugar, milk. Plan for what will go right and what may turn the wrong way.  Yes, it can be good to plan, but what if planning has become all there is? What good is planning all the right steps if you never take that first one?

I really need to press myself to write in the morning tomorrow, and to get up to my office.  I know it is possible for me, that I will be able to do the work, it is only a matter of getting to work.  I need to commit to that, so I think I will attempt to put a second poem on the blog tomorrow, but earlier in the day.  I know that commiting to posting on this blog is often important for keeping me consistent, knowing I have a commitment to more than just myself and that others can see if I do not meet this self-imposed obligation helps keep me on task.  It has been a successful strategy in the past, and I believe it will help me to get myself back into the habit of writing each morning.

Why? It may be that asking for reasons is considered fine, reasonable, to borrow back the word, but they are not owed, will remain a mystery.  It is not that those answers are undeserved, but instead, that in truth, there are no reasons, or only reasons that are not real reasons, callous choices, random choices. The color of eyes, the vowels in a name.  There are no good reasons, but it is better you believe it is only that we will not explain the truth.

I often am uncertain of my work these days.  It is not that I think it isn't good, but I am not always able to follow why I am choosing to write about this or that.  I am relying very much on what comes to mind as I start a poem, and am getting to a place where I trust those impulses.  I am certain that is a boom, but I am also still getting accustomed to the work that often results from that approach.

Mental Shift It was a moment moving from that to this, but it was a shift the mind could only make that fast, thoug it was big.  It was like leaping a stream, running up to the bank and soaring.  Any slower could never have worked, but it still meant a hard landing and a few moments to catch the breath.

I failed to get to work this morning, but I think my day may be more conducive tomorrow, as I needed to be out fairly early.  I should have a clear day tomorrow. In general, I am still in a state of writing most of my poems from a fairly stream of consciousness, almost free associative approach. It is interesting how ideas often come into shape as I am writing.  I am often surprised at the way things come into a structure, as if there had been a plan to start with.  I also know that the more I write the more I press myself to let out the deeper, more complicated and resonant work.  It can be hard to access that place, and for me, it often seems to be a matter of clearing out other material firat.