Would That I Might

 I often considered various literary forms as organizational mechanics.  For example, I think of stories in this way.  Consider that a series of events are not a story in the world, but become a story through how they are collected into a framework.  A set of events over a span of years might seem disparate and unconnected when seen as just the reality of things that happened, but when some of those events are pulled out and ordered, it can create a specific narrative thread.  The story is not the events that occur, but a method for ordering them, with certain qualities. To me, this is the essential function of language, to be honest: to organize and process information about the world.  This facilitates communication, of course, but the truth is, it is an internal tool first.  The mind of a child must learn to associate words and ideas with what exists in the world before being able to put that language to use with another.  Various studies show ...

Family Goals Asked what she wants for her family, I thought it would be happiness or something of that sort, that she would want  her children to have joy, but that was not anything she says she wants, no, what she wants is communication and respect, but she did not say anything about making things better, only that their should be respect and the ability to discuss it.

I am thinking about certain personal myths that have been part of my identity for a very long time.  When I was young and began school, my experiences were very extreme and difficult.  As a dyslexic student, I had a great deal of difficulty learning and the school was not equipped to offer any help.  Instead, I was ignored and convinced of my own failings.  I believed I was notintellectually capable of reading, for example.   The results of this were very extreme.  I was a young child and the impact of being pushed down in this way were very extreme.  My father always spoke of how I changed, how I lost a certain spark.  My mother has expressed similar feelings as well.  Now, I am sure that there is a truth here, that I did change.  I was wounded, and I cannot really describe what I felt at the time.  I accepted it as true and right, as normal.  I deserved it, because I was just stupid.  But, I did not want to be, and ...

Family Therapy Tomorrow scares me, it will bring a day I already can see, can imagine.  The morning seems so clear, tonight I can see it, can see dawn and a sky balancing clouds against blue.  It seems fine, a nice morning, but I am not afraid because of weather. Rain would be the same. It is what I might learn, what may be said, what may be made clear.

I have been thinking quite a lot about what it means to be a poet.  For me, it tends to be about an intimacy with language as a physical thing, with words as objects.  In our usual interactions with language, we are treating it as a means, as a method for communicating.  The words are not important in and of themselves, but as the vehicles for expression.  When I write poetry, however, the words still communicate, of course, but they are themselves a solid presence, are integral.  An essay or story is not, in some sense, made of words, but made of the elements of those mediums, ideas, plots, characters.  The words act to carry these things to the reader, but are not the primary offering.  This is, of course, a general statement, and is less and less true over time, I think, as writing in other genres beyond poetry begins to take on these qualities (I could write as to my thoughts on the reasons for this, but I will save that for another time).  A ...

He Thinks We Are Alike That I am the same, that I think those things, that I see people as he does, and I know what he sees, I have heard enough of it, have listened, have heard, have understood it, and I do not know why I did not run, but I did not.  I listened, and he thinks I am the same, but it is only that I listened, is only that I was afraid to be seen by him, to be dismissed.  I know what he thinks, what he considers doing. I do not want  to push him, and so I listened, so he thinks we are the same.

 I have not been very good about writing in the morning, lately.  I've been doing my intended work, but not according to the daily plan I have in my mental schedule.  Ideally, I would like to start and end my day by writing, but I find I am having difficulty with that morning aspect.  It is a matter of choosing to do it, but I find it easy to say to let that slip.  At night, going to bed is a hard deadline.  I am committed to doing the work before I go to sleep, so I get it done.  I need to figure out something similar where I can use as a boundary, but I am not sure what that would be.  At least, I am still doing my work each day.  It would be good to have my routine under control, but I am still producing new poems daily, and that is a far more important consideration.