i always forget
before leaving on any sort of
vacation
just how much i will
miss
new york city.
~~~
what to do
what to say
what to write
what, today?
~~~
is sleeping
in one’s
childhood bed
truly as relaxing
as it seems?
(i’ll check in after another day or so
to inform of my personal findings)
i don’t know how to talk about anything
other than
everything that happened yesterday
and i don’t even really know
how
to talk about everything that happened yesterday
[but somehow
i must]
[?]
coffee
is the most important meal of the day
coffee
brings me joy in an otherwise too dark/too cold portion of the morning
coffee
is the time i get to spend with my spouse, writing in parallel, making up words and worlds right beside each other.
coffee.
all of the poems
that were in my head
have escaped
November
my birth month
November
the start of the race to the end of the year
November
the beginning of chilly weather without the distraction of spookiness
November
this time last year
i started a novel
and succeeded in writing a bunch
of it
every
single
day.
will i succeed again?
i live a very inconsistent life
but
i need a consistency
(just a singular one)
in order to
thrive
(or at least survive)
i keep writing
and writing and writing
and writing and writing and writing and writing
and i feel like i’m saying
just absolutely
nothing.
i’ve been writing and deleting
for a few days now
[and drawing and erasing]
and i know this happens
no matter what;
it is inevitable at some point
to need to re-create
in order to finish a creation
but i’ve been starting and immediately stopping,
each burst of creative energy is met with
“ehhh…maybe not…”
to then need to forge a new path
ahead
and i am unsure if this means i am having trouble following a complete path
or perhaps i’m simply noticing earlier where paths will not lead
or maybe it means i’m putting everything down on paper[screen]
when i initially start
instead of editing myself in my head
whatever the reason
[be it “good” or “bad” or “neutral”]
it doesn’t stop the “now”
from being quite frustrating
every time.
will i ever find my own voice
my pattern of poetry
my own way of writing
a style all my own
in this poem-a-day-venture?
do i even want to?
i want to find my own style
while drawing
because right now my “style” is simply
me not really knowing what i’m doing
and trying things out
and fading limbs when they err too close to the hands
and to the feet…
but i generally know what i’m doing
with writing
(or at least i was formally trained
for a time)
(though that doesn’t necessarily mean
anything
at all)
a style in visual art
to me
would mean
i’ve achieved choices
and a way to be recognized
and a general idea of what i’m doing
(and doing it with purpose)
but a style
in poetry
to me
would mean
pigeon-holing me
into one particular mode of voice
and this cacophony of styles
i suppose
is my choice
(and i guess,
at least right now
i do with a semblance
of purpose)
just atop a grain of rice
it makes my laptop all
wibbly-wobbly.
and something so small
that affects so much
has to be a metaphor (right?)
(ok, granted, my laptop is far closer to the size of the grain of rice
than say
myself
or
the universe
but still,
size-wise
it is quite
small.)
so
what great insight can i gain from this
“rice under the laptop”
experience?
perhaps to always look for the root cause of an issue
and to not judge too harshly
if the core issue seems
“too small”
to affect that much.
or maybe the lesson here is to simply
clean off the table
between meals and morning pages.
kipventures 