Belle has fleas and they keep biting me. This is the last thing I want to deal with right now. I need to take her to the vet tomorrow and I need to go to the TSU library to work on invite stuff.
Mike and I tried on wedding bands today. Everything is feeling more real. We have a wedding coordinator who will hopefully put my mind at ease.
There is still a lot of work to do — and school will get so insane. And then I need to make poetry.
Rereading S. Plath and some of her journals and her bio — and I think I want this crazy life. All I want to do & can’t live up to.
Life stops us — but we, most of anyway, keep trying.
Sea, thoughts of
the long windows that
opened out to it — there
the way your hand fell
into mine, the sand
and the broken
glass, blues and greens
How to be a writer? I look at my life and wonder how to get outside of myself in terms of words. How to be a poet? Often times I don’t know. My life is not much right now. Too much TV and Internet. How to break through laziness. The need to be more than I am …
Reading Montale then Ann Marie Macari, I think I’m starting to get it — poetry. The mysteriousness of language, why form may be good for me. Writing to the you not the reader about the you (Montale) and Macari’s surprises within short poems.
How to do this? Keep reading more. Write without thinking. What I keep striving for — approval?
There is a world between the trees, scattered along the boulevard. Wanting it to be as real as the stop sign on the corner, wanting a hand to hold onto the handlebars. This is when the neighbors laughed. Body of gold. When the time came for the dogs to be let out, they were let out. Someone jumped in bed with someone else. The tulips turned yellow.
To break inside, to steal
the diamond and wear all black —
I wanted to be the robber,
the thief, the person who fell
through glass ceilings
to get what she wanted.
When the window was left
opened, I crawled through it.
I’m a bone, you’re bone (Popa’s line)
welded together by dust.
If you return, I’ll return
(with you). Make flesh
out of all the fruit we cannot
eat. Who said the garden was paradise?