Let me see. There must be some nice things I can say about you. Like I stay indoors more often when you’re around, get in touch with my inner recluse. I get to read more, post six or seven poems a week rather than the usual four. Less of a slacker. Red wine tastes better with you. So too a good roast. I get to write haiku again on frosts and ice, shivery, shivery three liners. And I get to wear my exotic Mongolian beanie everywhere. Winter I embrace you.
–––––––––– “I wrote this on our coldest day since June 1922.” – the writer
My day off – before I’m out of bed I’ve formed a plan. I’ll alternate writing with life in 2-hour chunks to get something done besides writing.
7 am – write. 9 am – laundry, dishes, make beds. 11 am – write. 1 pm – lunch, vacuum, walk the dog. 3 pm – write, timer sounds, reset, write some more. 5 pm – pee, make coffee, write some more. 6 pm – throw a haphazard meal together for the family while listening to a writer’s podcast. 7 pm – leave dishes in the sink, turn the timer off, write. Midnight – “Yes I’m coming to bed.” Soon.
Welcome to my humble cerebrum. Please forgive the mess. It’s late and my meds wore off hours ago. Had you arrived earlier, I might have offered you clarity and foresight, or at least some room in which to think. Once brain fog descends, order is impossible.
Yes, apologies are piled quite high, right next to guilt, and broken promises.
Lazy. Stupid. Selfish. Why can’t you get it together?
Somehow, self-loathing has become more acceptable than honesty. Labels are meant to stick, after all.
No, I’m not making excuses! I mean, not on purpose. And …
I’m sorry. What were we talking about?
–––––––––– “(I write) as a means of escape and creative expression.” – the writer
Before the moment when the cloud cleared I had no idea how blue the sky was, no idea how silvery the rain though I’d felt it many times falling gently or fierce as a cataract after a storm and I’d searched my memory and my imagination to find how they were coloured. Before the moment when the cloud cleared from my eyes and tears spilled like cataracts, I had no clear idea.
–––––––––– “I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
It starts with picking crayons, cartoons, interests, and curiosities. Choosing playmates and hobbies, eventually a trade and vocation. And then the choices aren’t so easy, resulting in consequences, trauma, bliss, or both. You’ll choose a partner or lose one, maybe. You might make a decision that sends you to an early grave or somewhere very much alive, halfway across the world. You’ll grow complacent or incomplete, nostalgic or hopeful; you’ll die alone or with a loved one. And it’s of uttermost importance, making choices, because it’s a series of choosing that dictates the quality and quantity of life, so choose.
–––––––––– “Writing, for me, is one of the most enjoyable existential distractions.” – the writer
O for the ears of Gilberto Medina, the 69 year old foreman of the laundry room at the Hotel Pierre who could detect a problem with a machine by a slight variation in its hum; if I could have listened to the hum of my relationships like that I might still have been with my ex, avoided an eight year trainwreck moved further along in my profession become a better poet but as it is what can you do? I’ve always had a tin ear.
–––––––––– “I read about Gilberto in a recent New Yorker and it inspired this piece about listening.” – the writer
The crack became a slash almost splitting her in two. She could have sought help, could have driven to heal it, But after a while she quite liked it. It had become part of her and she felt it became her and who knew what would emerge to wriggle and squeeze though the gap.
––––––––––– “I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
Sometimes my son sashays through the living room stimming about numbers. If he gets overly excited about a measurement or a weight or a linear sequence of some kind he’ll hop twice, twist his wrists, and smile.
In that microsecond— when his feet are off the ground and he’s ranting about the height of our dog or the size of the celery— I’ll see him joyful. I seep inside all that bright light where there are not differences, or comparisons, or forebodings. Within that flash of air between his feet and floor, there is just lightness and love.
–––––––––– “My poetry comes from my life as a husband and father. I have one son with special needs and another one who is neuro-typical; both are brilliant inspirations for me.” – the writer