i love doing things with my hands
creating and crafting and seeing something come to fruition
with only my fingers and a few fibers to start
and i love creating with my mind
and using letters and words and language
and the simplest of things build whole worlds
and express emotions i never thought i’d be able to express
and i love being physical
creating strength from my own muscles
creating an audience reaction through my own movement
and stage presence
and i love organizing
creating a sense of order where
once there was none
and i love acting
taking only my own experiences
and creating a whole new person
from others’ words
and my empathy
and some research
and guidance from a director
and reactions from fellow actors
and i think the conclusion this poem is giving me
is gifting me
is that everything i love has a sense of creation
and that could be the biggest aspect
of the things that i love
that i love the most
creative process
September 23, 2026
morning page poems are such a wild ride
because i sit down at a screen and start to write
and have zero words
[well, technically three, as i date every entry]
and i begin to write
and no matter how many words i put into the document
the word counter never seems to go beyond 150
and with a 300 word goal, this is agonizing
so i sludge and trudge through this sand dune of letters
never seeming to become full words that count
and i write and write and write and write
and eventually i forget to check the word count —
i get lost in a poem or a memory or a simple phrase
and before i know it, i’ve gotten multiple poems down
and i glance at the word count, and it’s approaching 300
not quite there yet, but i get a sense of sadness, that soon i will achieve the 300 word mark
and that means i no longer need to be writing
[not that i’d stop myself from continuing on, it’s just a weird feeling of disappointment, that i won’t actually
need to be writing anymore in a moment]
and then
i get lost again
in a poem/word/thought/phrase/memory/something
and i glance down at the word count
and i’ve gone well beyond 300 words
[just now i hit 500, in case you’re wondering]
and i wonder if i’m feeling like my morning pages are done
i wonder if i’ve got anything that i’m willing to post to share
into the ether/the void/the possibility of it being read
though so few people actually do look to read
every
single
day
but i do
do this
every
single
day
and tomorrow morning the journey will probably be the same
but the words/phrases/poems/thoughts/discoveries
will not be
and i think that’s neat.
June 23, 2026
the quiet of the wee hours
the hours after all obligations have ended
and most humans have already gone to sleep —
those are the sacred hours for many a theatre-maker/
artist/
performer/
writer/
night-owl —
i used to worship at the feet of
two
and three am
but something changed in my internal workings;
was it a global pandemic?
or some genetic sleeper cell that had been waiting
all along to detonate?
or a combination of happenstance and physiology
all in one?
i can no longer own the title night owl
i am solidly
early
bird
i now hold in my heart my quiet, special time
of 5 and 6 and 7 am
when everyone
[and the night owls especially]
still dream in soft beds —
i am awake and working on
myself
and my own mind
and writing and writing before the world
churns again
the quiet of the wee hours
can be anyone’s,
whomever needs them
night owl
early bird
and anyone in-between
the hours can be religious in nature
or secular if you need no belief
but the sacredness comes from
inside
the sacredness comes from
what you
need
May 9, 2026
it’s always
so interesting
when the poems i start to write
are not
the poems that end up
written
