ACCEPTING

Who I am.

Not some
hoped for
remembered
idealized
demonized

potential vision of myself.

Who I am.
At this moment
eating a sliver of strawberry.
.

SOLDIERS

HESITATION. TIMIDNESS. INDECISION. TENTATIVENESS. VACILLATION. IRRESOLUTION.

I hit "pause" too often in my life. What do I do with that time space? I sit, thinking about what I could be doing, pondering alternatives, what ifs, maybe sos, or elses.

My hesitation is often about my very next move or the move after that. What is best, what is worth the time and effort, what effect will my choice have on me, my dogs, the world? Every single day I want to do a million things. I never stop coming up with ideas; rarely do I start executing. Everything has to be just right, exactly so, at the precise moment...or it all crumbles. Nothing seems worth doing and my idea was probably stupid anyway.

And then I sit.
.

PAINTING IN PROGRESS

OLD BOOTS

My seventeen year-old Doc Martens, still walking -- though not nearly as much as they used to:

ADVICE FROM TED KOOSER

"Too much cleverness in poetry can be a real killer."

ADVICE FROM TED KOOSER

"A poem is an object constructed of words, and when this object is presented to its readers, it is theirs to respond to however they wish."

AT THE BORDER

PICTURE TAKING

Taking photographs is much easier than writing. When I have a camera in hand, I am willing to take creative risks, have a lot of fun, and refrain from self-criticism. With a pen, there is inevitably tension, and not a lot of joy.

I snapped this yesterday:

I just love the use of language. The artist arranged phrases into something exciting, playful, intriguing -- something much greater than the sum of its parts.

I felt an excitement seeing this; it reminded me of a person I once knew.

.

CHAPUNGU

ADVICE FROM TED KOOSER

"If a poem doesn't make sense to anybody but its author, nobody but its author will care a whit about it."

TUESDAYS, OR, THE HALF-ASSED HOUSEKEEPER

A messy home is a creative threat. 


For most of my life, I would have vehemently disagreed. I have always been, to put it gently, an unconcerned housekeeper.


Now, on Tuesdays, I am a crappy maid.  

First order of business: the trash.

I wake half-panicked, knowing garbage and recycling must be at the curb no later than 8. At 7, mostly asleep in a ratty tank top and crazy-pattern pants (today, turquoise with yellow polka dots), I grab a new trash bag and empty the three garbage pails in the basement; then, I stagger upstairs for the bins in my office, bedroom, bathrooms and laundry room. I take the usually-smelly kitchen trash bag from under the sink, remove the refrigerator's dead leftovers and carry the bags to the big outdoor trash can in the garage. I collect newspapers, bottles and cans for the recycling bin. I race around the damp morning yard grabbing dog poop. Finally, I roll it all down to the curb. 


The dogs and I listen for the rumbly, scary truck. When it comes, we hide. 

After the trash drama, we move on to getting the dishwasher packed, a load of laundry spinning. I never skip my morning latte. I sip, enamored for at least an hour in all manner of truly-not-fascinating-yet-somehow-extraordinarily-fascinating things online. 


Eventually, I start doing the real housework. First: unclutter and put stuff away. That means dishes, purchases, (eyeshadow and three bottles of nail polish on kitchen table for three days, a box of paperclips for six) magazines, dog toys. I meander through the house, daydream out the streaky windows, hang up coats, collect mail, try on scarves, check Facebook. My eventual goal: all surfaces and floors cleared for phase two. 


Phase Two: surfaces. There are two types: wet and dry. "Wet" surfaces are cleaned with a liquid; "dry" surfaces, without. I attack the kitchen and bathrooms with all-purpose cleaner and paper towels. I am destroying the Earth with my paper-towel usage. I spray, spray, spray, wipe, wipe, wipe, destroy, destroy, destroy. 


Dry surfaces need dusting. I use a green battery-operated duster which spins loudly and redistributes dust. I pretend not to notice. 

Because I have dogs, I de-hair the upholstered furniture in the living room. My Pledge Fabric Sweeper goes swish, swish, swish, clogging immediately. Bandit, my Springer Spaniel,grudgingly lumbers to the other side of the sofa when I get to his spot. Swiffer Swiffer Swiffer the floors. Stop for an unhealthy snack. Did I get any email? Take a look. Dustbust the mythic dustbunnies. Wonder how dogs aren't bald; ponder if hair removal constitutes cruelty. 


Lady, my Cocker Spaniel, is never braver than when she barks at and runs from the vacuum.  

Finally, I pretend I’m done.

ADVICE FROM TED KOOSER

"Poetry is a lot more important than poets."

FILLING UP

On March 30, I decided that I would fill up a blank journal before the end of April. Today, on its last page, I wrote my farewell. A previously empty book is now filled with my words.

I had several goals in filling this journal. Mostly, I wanted to see if I had anything left to say and hoped to discover if I could sustain interest in my own writing for the duration of the month. 

I did fine. Not only did I write daily, I wrote during nearly every available moment. My journal isn't filled with poems or essays or much of anything in particular. Mostly ramblings, ponderings, and copious musings about all the things I could and/or should be doing.

It also has a lot of examples of what self-help types would call "negative self-talk."

Something unusual -- I haven't read much while engaged in this writing experiment. The exception is Ted Kooser's The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice for Beginning Poets, a book I picked up on a whim at the library while browsing the "writers' section."  

As you can see, my writing is no longer a solitary endeavor; I welcome and appreciate canine company. Too bad it took me so long to discover this!

ADVICE FROM TED KOOSER

"Some [poets] go out of their way to make their poems difficult if not downright discouraging."