Meditating on everything. Or nothing.
For whatever reason, the last series of days allowed for no prose discussions. No sudden revelations of character or personality. So numbers of visitors falter off my sites, page counts drop to single digits. • An infection swells on the right side of my head. Call it a dragon’s egg. An awkward hex. Sometimes at night it throbs with the body’s pulse. I take antibiotics. Place warm compresses. After two days it appears to be reducing in size. Slowly. Ever slowly. • Tonight I bathed Brendan. He may complain a little about the loss of time, but overall washing up is less problematic than it once was.
He seems to have stretched these last few days—have I said that already? Any given moment I look at him and his body transforms into a stronger state. A taller young man.•
The yellow jasmine in the sie garden so far seems to survive the cold snap from earlier in the week—the arctic front which paralyzed much of the Midwest only glances at Houston. A slight lowering of temperatures into the freezing point, then a gradual return to spring-like weather.• At least the long poem project “The River, Fractured” motions forward, on a nightly basis. Some hours the lines appear easier than others—which makes common sense. I cannot expect every moment writing to be as successful as another.
The poem grows and develops like Brendan: sudden spurts of energy, unexpected new logic falling from his mouth. As of this moment, I have reached 2,102 fragmented entries—an intense stream of consciousness meditating on everything. Or nothing. A flow of creative commentary building on a grand scale.
At one time I would obsess over every statistic provided to me about traffic flow. Now, I no longer agonize over small attendance records: I need my sleep.
The poem grows and develops like Brendan: sudden spurts of energy, unexpected new logic falling from his mouth.
He seems to have stretched these last few days—have I said that already? Any given moment I look at him and his body transforms into a stronger state. A taller young man.
The yellow jasmine in the sie garden so far seems to survive the cold snap from earlier in the week—the arctic front which paralyzed much of the Midwest only glances at Houston. A slight lowering of temperatures into the freezing point, then a gradual return to spring-like weather.
The poem grows and develops like Brendan: sudden spurts of energy, unexpected new logic falling from his mouth. As of this moment, I have reached 2,102 fragmented entries—an intense stream of consciousness meditating on everything. Or nothing. A flow of creative commentary building on a grand scale.
They are both block and creative inspiration - these 'sites' we maintain. Counting stats is probably the worst habit they encouraged (though you're right - that' a habit that dies away). A friend accuses me of 'intellectual masturbation' (actually he's funnier and ruder than that but...) - maintaining the blog is not to his liking. But the blog has given me an outlet I'd otherwise not have had. And I've 'met' people I'd otherwise not have met.
ReplyDeleteBrendan sounds as though he's thriving. My lot are my joy and my muse and my torture. Which is just about right for a parent I think. I miss the early years though. Ana the baby is now almost 12. And I feel terribly old at 47 (though I know most of the parents of the very young kids I meet now are older than me again). I'm hoping to buy a copy of your book when it's published - you'll let me know when it's out? And the fragments below are wonderful - I am so curious about the commentary you're building.
So much to respond to in one comment— :)
DeleteEven with Spring Break this week I have only now been able to catch up with e-mails and the blog.
Speaking of the blog: as long as it maintains itself and sustains you, then everything is fine. Anne Sexton began writing poetry as a means of mental survival at the suggestion of her therapist. (And there are others.) If writing remains for you as creative inspiration, then go for it. I began this experiment to learn how to talk more frequently about poetry, writing for my lectures. Build up the labyrinth of material in other words. In 2015 I am pulling back a little to build up further inspirations.
Like the child, for instance. He's independent streak is developing in a stronger fashion everyday— and he is only four. Some days he needs me in a major dependent fashion— some days he is ready to conquer the moon.
The book should be ready in a matter of weeks/months. We send out the final edited-draft this weekend. The process has been exhilarating to say the least.
You will hear more, soon. Promise!