Sometimes a mundane act like a domestic chore spirals out into a poem— an occasional poem about routine reality. The chore itself then transcends, transforms. The average event motions from the ordinary into something larger. However, in this case, in my head lies a nagging voice: the Ideal Sonnet-Cycle taunts. Teases. Refusing to merge on the page. Refuses to merge with the notions of the Ordinary Act.
Maybe this all falls down to fear of completion. Fear of an incomplete completion. Of a flawed product(?).
No. No. What this all falls down to is a lack of organization. My old argument returns. The ideas are scattered across the week itself, interrupted by preparation for school, new quizzes to generate, new essays to read. What is needed for me is a stronger connection to my journal entries, my catalog of ideas. A casual index of projects. A notebook for my notebooks.
•33/ Walking into the back of the house; in tight slumber, the family sleeps. From outside, in the side garden, suddenly, wind chimes clamor. •