Questions of Travel

I'm in New York right now, taking some vacation time to visit a few friends and revisit a world outside of my cozy Kansas City. Being here, I feel almost hyper. Still, I'm missing this little beansprout back home.

Fatal Toothpicks and Freebasing Moon Rocks

For close to a year, I have been writing every day.

"Writing" is a term I use loosely. What I really mean to say is "putting some ink on a piece of paper and crossing that act off my mental to-do list." Good days happen, like days when I really get to work on a poem. Those days feel nice. I can take a walk and take deep breaths and fall asleep without feeling antsy.

The majority of what I put on paper, though, is far less substantial. Most days are modest notes, far less likely to stand alone: tiny phrases that catch my ear, drawings of plants, and lots of lists: things I ate, streets I crossed, and descriptions of the voices on which I eavesdropped.

Some days, these notes are instead reminders of strange stories that I encounter. Did you know, for instance, that Sherwood Anderson died because he accidentally ate a toothpick? This was one of my notes on March 29. Please read this if you don't believe me.

While I am proud to make anything on these small days, I would not call them productive. I often leave those days feeling rushed and harried. I am, on the other hand, glad to have a habit like "writing" to anchor myself. Even though I sometimes feel discouraged by the "unproductive" days, it could always be worse. My daily habit could be scrolling without engagement through Perez Hilton, or perhaps freebasing moon rocks.

That's all my long-winded way of telling you that I'm trying to write more. To really make, or at least start making, new things every day. Even if they're immediately abandoned. I will do my best to share those dumb new tiny things on this here blog every once in a while.

Also, an art professor at CVS told me last night that he thinks my apartment is infested with bedbugs. He began speaking to me in Spanish. I responded in Spanish, and then he told me he didn't actually speak much Spanish and that he would prefer not to. I was buying cortisone cream because I've been pretty itchy.

Anyhow, that's been on my mind, so I'm sorry if this post seems a little distracted.

Here's trying.

Lying in a Hammock

"Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota"

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,   

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.   

Down the ravine behind the empty house,   

The cowbells follow one another   

Into the distances of the afternoon.   

To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,   

The droppings of last year’s horses   

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.   

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.

- by James Wright, first published in The Paris Review (1961)

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.