I have much else to say and observe. Things about poetry. About the billions of sounds leaves make underneath the plod of my feet, about their melding colors and about the way I saw a pile of yellow ones overflowing a Boston trashcan today [A safety liability?]. I have things to say about tingles. Air. The tiny hairs inside my nostrils that shiver because of leaves, because of far off fires. I have things to say about light waves and the taste of oxygen. Doctors. Men with crutches and cups and women with ponchos who flap their lips at cars and how it must feel when they drive past. I have things to say, always. Things to write.
I keep waiting for this to end so I can write them, do them, be them. The trick is writing, doing, and being in the midst of all of this. During. I am going to try it. I’m going to try to be happy with the way things are. I am going to rearrange my mind and my energy and my time and life so that I am. God help me.
[Me, writing this. Nov. 13, 2008]
I’m totally with you on this. I keep scraps of things to write about and never do it because I’m waiting til some proper moment when I magically have time. To some degree, I did need things to relax a bit to really start writing regularly again, but in all honesty — it’s all just a matter of working it into your life.
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