Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Mild Transformation

I was not stung by a wasp this morning. The day moves as still water. Yet, my sinuses clog under my eyes, over my nose, causing sessions of hacking, coughing, sneezing—
This afternoon we sat outside trimming back my scalp. A relief exists feeling the fine hairs fall onto my shoulders, my lap. The afternoon promised heavy rain—even though we remained under the covered patio, the lingering effects of a late spring cold front were felt. So we rushed the process; Ricky’s hands stumbled with the electric cord, rushing to complete the trimming before the inevitable rainfall. Brendan danced in circles beside us, laughing at the weather, grinning at his father’s mild transformation.
One last editing session. The final, absolute proof. Unexpectedly, the publisher, Ron Starbuck, and I caught a small graphic issue in the table of contents.
Individual poem titles were intended to be indented after the section titles—instead, everything is flushed to the extreme left margin of the page. As a result, now there is a slight delay in production, only a day or two, but a delay nonetheless. But then, now we have a certainty. No more hesitations to contend with—the manuscript is soon to be a book. A collection of itself.
Over the weekend I will be in New York City for the Rainbow Book Fair, presenting five minutes of reading from Variations. For the last week or so I have juggled a list of poems to recite—considered the short prefaces before each work.

For some odd reason, setting up a reading always puts me in a bitter mood. It falls down to not knowing which poems suits the proper mood— the fall of emotions. Self promotion is not one of my greatest talents.

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