Me and Mr. Jones

Billy Paul, take note.

- "Me and Mr. Jones" by Amy Winehouse, from Back to Black (2006)

Volver (The Snow Man)

It's been a little while. Whoops.

I feel a strange and slight twinge of maternal guilt for neglecting this blog, but mostly I feel excitement. For the past month or so, my focus has landed hard on poetry. In the last week, I was very lucky to do a featured reading and a symposium presentation. I also just got a piece accepted for publication by Kansas City Voices. Obviously, I'm incredibly grateful and surprised by all this, but other arenas of my life have diminished for it. In addition to the spareness of this blog, I managed to somehow kill my hydroponic dill plant, which is fed and watered by an automated machine. (I deserve a special award for that one.)

That's all my long-winded way of saying that it's impossible to find time and energy to do even half the things I want. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. I'm only reading the books that truly hook me (I strongly recommend Yaa Gyasi's Homegoing). I'm accidentally spending more time away from the Internet. I'm starting a new job tomorrow. I'm exploring Kansas City, and pulling my head out of its own self-involved thoughts every now and then to honestly look at the current moment. It's much easier said than done, but there is no discovery like seeing a familiar place as if for the first time again.

This post seems to be building to a point, but it's not there. So, because it is Sunday morning and the laundry basket is calling my name, I'll end this scrambled, rambling post with a poem I love.

As always, thank you for reading this far.

"The Snow Man"

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

- by Wallace Stevens, from the collection Harmonium (1923)

Para Qué Sufrir

- "Para Qué Sufrir," by Natalia Lafourcade, from Hasta la Raíz (2015)

Te Quiero

Sunday.

- "Te Quiero" by Los Dug Dugs, from Cambia, Cambia (1973)

Love

- "Alone Again Or" by Love, from Forever Changes (1967)

On Death (A Confrontation)

This morning, I woke up at 5:00 with the intent to reflect. I've noticed that, increasingly, I've alienated a lot of brilliant and caring people. There could be lots of reasons for this, but I think terror is a big piece of the puzzle. I'm scared to be honest with other people about how scared I am myself.

Thus, my dumb big Internet confession: I am so uncomfortable with mortality that I'm flailing to confront my own goals and ambitions--which is to say nothing of my relationships. I'm genuinely remorseful for all of the wonderful friendships that have slipped through my fingers, and grateful for the ones who put up with my bullshit. If I made you feel neglected, I am sorry for that most of all. I have felt paralyzed into inaction since I moved back to Kansas City, and am fighting to once again recognize my own capability.

Does anyone else constantly think about these things? How do you reconcile the inevitability of an ending with the potential of a present? How have you recovered from loss? If you have thoughts to share, I'd love to hear them via email, comment, the little "contact" sidebar on this blog, smoke signal, telegram, or any other nearly-outdated form of communication. Let's have a conversation.

I'm perfectly safe and well this morning. I'm sure I'll regret this post as soon as I hit "Publish," but I've also been raised to believe in unflinching honesty.

This morning, I focus anew on my present.

Thank you. Much love to you, reader.

Stone by Stone

Recently I've been preoccupied into "head-above-water" mode. I'm somewhat exhausted by everything I'm doing, but I'm also exhilarated: there is an overwhelming, if complicated, sense of relief in being absolutely overtaken by the things that excite me. The past few weeks have been a time of reading, of writing, of watching, of listening, of exploring, of talking. Sufficient time doesn't exist for all of it. I feel as though, maybe, I'm beginning to seize my own agency once again.

Thanks for being a part of that in reading this.

- "Rio Grande" by Ikebe Shakedown, from Stone by Stone (2014)

Garlic Is as Good as Ten Mothers

The title says it all.

- Garlic Is as Good as Ten Mothers by Les Blank (1980)

Con Flores

- "Nuesta Canción" by Monsieur Periné, from Caja de Música (2015)