Where I've Been

This month marks my second annual Sealey Challenge, which means that I have been blogging daily, but I've been doing so at thepracticalpoet.blogspot.com.

It's Friday. My plans for the day include yardwork, dog walking, yoga/HIIT training, a quick Costco trip, WRITING AND SUBMITTING POETRY, organizing/discarding paperwork, taking items to storage, picking up S. from work & taking her to Michael's to look for a shadow box for tarantula molts (as one does), and gathering with friends to toast a colleague who is moving to another branch. Two notes on all this: one, discarding paperwork is probably the most permanent way to organize it; and two, I had to shout at myself about writing and submitting poems because honestly, I don't seem to be listening to my better self otherwise. 

Reading Spencer Reece's The Clerk's Tale has inspired me, as reading any good poets does, to strive for something approaching that skill and applied talent. 

Finish Line, of Sorts

We've reached the end of April! And while I am still sitting in an office surrounded by stacks of books, paperwork and boxes, it no longer contains the xerox-paper box that once held my high School and College binders and pages of essays and notes and the "blue books" which were standard fare for tests in the 80s at Dominican (when it was a College, before it became a University). So it feels like a hair of progress.

I spent the morning at Coffee Katz with my friend E. drinking coffee and discussing our kids and the universe (multiverse, actually) and all sorts of things. If we saw each other more frequently, it wouldn't take three hours to catch up.

After a few errands, I made it home, did a work out, then left again for an hour-long walk with another friend. Our dogs love to hang-out together, and I only brought home (as far as I can tell) one tick on my person. I was so pleased to see how well Tango kept up. For a 12-year-old large-breed dog with bone cancer, he's doing very well indeed. 

Once I'd made dinner, I was ready for bed. But one more push: one more submission, and two more blog posts, and then I shall probably watch a little something, and then I shall sleep! 

Digging Out

Tomorrow, I pick up my shovel and find my way out of the piles of paperwork and books and half-finished tasks in my office. The more clutter I can remove, I believe, the clearer I shall think.

A house across the street and down the block is on the market, and I wish we could have ours ready to roll as well; it would be good to ride on the tailcoats of that sale. That house has just been gutted and revamped in a very standard style, fit to sell. Ours is nothing but character: wooden garage door, flowers everywhere in the front yard. I know which one I'd rather buy. Actually, I also know which one I want to sell. 

What I don't yet know is where our next home will be. This is me, trying to remember to trust in the process and know the timing will be right when it's right. 

Still: decluttering is on the books, after coffee with one friend and before a dog-walk with another.

Duty First, Pleasure Later

Each day this month I've spent at least two hours working on my poetry, almost all after having worked a full day. 

Every time, I tell myself that I can watch a movie or read a book as soon as I finish writing, editing and submitting poems, or posting blog entries, or both. But I am always so tired by the time I do those things, I have no time or energy left for relaxing. This sounds whiny, I know. And it's not as though writing is hard physical labor. But the sustained attention is something. I am looking forward to giving myself a little break and changing gears in May. 

End of Month in Sight

And the question arises: will I continue to post on an even slightly regular basis here? I expect so, and not only because it has become a habit. There will be news to report and thoughts on craft will arise.

I am currently listening to the fabulous Linda Gregerson read her poem, "When Nothing But Tree." She seems to be an excellent reader in addition to being a skilled poet.  

I've been told that I read my poems "dismissively," and don't treat them (via tone) as seriously as they deserve. Perhaps this is more true during a critique session with peers than it is at a reading or open mic, where I like to think I present more gravitas. But I am probably kidding myself about this. I shall try to remember Gregerson as a model, if the content warrants it. 

Reopening

Today we reopened the library branches in the county (aka my place of employment) for an "Express Service" - 2 one-hour slots during the day - 1 on Sunday - during which we can allow up to 47 members of the public to walk through our doors again.

It was a blissfully underwhelming roll-out, especially coming as it did of months of extreme angst on the part of some of my colleagues. Only a few people, all of whom were well-behaved. It will no doubt become busier and more challenging and we'll encounter difficult moments. But today at least, it was chill. One woman who brought in her five excited children actually cried, she was so grateful to be back in the library. The cockles of my heart are warmed. My hands are freezing cold, and I'm about to hunker down by the woodstove. By the my heart cockles are warm.

Liberal Arts Winnowing

On a slightly less poetic and more personal note, I wanted to say that this week, I am tossing all the work I did from four years of undergrad study. 

Well...this is a slight exaggeration, of course. I am only recycling about a dozen bulging binders and notebooks and thousands of pages of inked cursive notes, glancing through them as I go. It's the bulk of my undergrad work (Major: English Literature with a Writing Emphasis. Minor: Philosophy), but it's not the whole of it. The poems I wrote and the speculative fiction novella that was my thesis, for example, I still have printed out in a filing cabinet and in digital format (WordStart converted to text and then Word, I believe); and there are a few other things scattered here and there.

Years ago, I had thought that if I ever forgot all that I learned at college, I could re-read my notes and remind myself. Re-learn if necessary. But these notes were taken before the web existed as we know it. I'm getting rid of things like photocopied chapters from books and even some mimeograph pages, all full of information I could find again now either online or through the library. 

But more importantly, I believe that I also have been keeping these things as a sort of ego prop. Look what I did! Look at all those notes, and how neat my penmanship was, and how well I did on essays and tests! Really, it's as though I had these papers as a backup plan in case I needed to prove something to myself and to others. Even now, throwing them away, I called my younger daughter into the room witness all that effort going into recycle. Just so someone can see that I had a thorough liberal arts education, and that I was present for it. That I worked hard.

But now, I don't need those papers. I just don't. What I studied, whether I retained any of it or not (consciously or subconsciously), was a foundation for what I know now and helped shape who I am. I don't need paper work for that to be true. And if I need to know something about any of the many things I studied, I will find the answer online. Unless technology completely failed us, I would never have been finding answers by going through my old notes anyway. (Although I will say that if technology did fail us, there would be worse places to turn to than the works of Homer, Chaucer, Dante, and Shakespeare.) 

I may save a few things that seem, still, more important than all the others. But I'll be going from a heavy bankers box of binders to a folder or two. How much lighter I'll be! And how much less to move when the time comes. 

A Drive in the Country

Today D. and I went for a spin in Sebastopol to drive past properties for sale that we cannot afford. It doesn't stop us from admiring them or from imagining ourselves there. A fire seems to have been lit in D. for moving now that he can see some possibilities that excite him. It's a fantastic development.

And here we are, Saturday night, and you would think I would have more energy with which to write a more thoughtful post. But I am worn out from weeding and still need enough energy to read a chapter of S's book. And then stretch! I forgot to stretch yesterday, and therefore had to deduct a point in the WLC. It's just as well. I'd had a perfect score before that, and it's better to be humble and human and remember that it's a process and not a contest. It's kind of like life that way. 

How the hours FLY by...

 ...when one is simply trying to weed the yard or edit and submit some poems. It's nearly 11pm and I still have not done many of the things I wanted to do today, although I did rid the yard of some weeds, and I ran errands, and exercised, and spent some lovely time with N. talking about baby shower plans and had a great zoom reunion with my erstwhile writing group, the Pointy Pals (PPJ & PPS). Oh! And had another poem accepted somewhere. Yay!

There's a cold wind tonight, and the wind chimes are loud outside my window. Mr. Darcy is restless and looking for trouble, so I've plunked him in S's room for now. It doesn't sound like that will last for long.

I'm still surrounded by piles of childhood paperwork, so I'll have to have time tomorrow to clear that away. And by "have" time, I don't mean "find" time. I mean "make" time. Come to think of it, a time-making machine would be lovely. Perhaps living in the moment is the answer? I shall have to try that. Tomorrow.

Telecommuted

Today was the last day I'm likely to telecommute for a while, given a change to our service. And even today, I spent most of the day in the branch, and only finished up here at home.

It's been nice to have one day to recover during the workweek and not wear a mask for eight hours, but it will also be good - challenging, but good - to open up and see patrons in the building again. And this way, I can separate my writing work from my work-work more easily. It's not that I write during work hours - I am scrupulously honest about time spent working - but having the same space used for both was taxing at some psychic level. There was a sort of energetic bleed-over that I can't explain without making it seem likely that I'll move on to astrological predictions next. 

I'm especially glad to have reached the end of this week, so that I can focus again on cleaning out/downsizing, gardening (weather permitting), patching the few places I missed with the shower grout-work, and generally getting things done. Perhaps a nap will happen (she said, passively), if the weather permits in the other direction. 

Too Tired to Write about Life, Because: Life

It's nearly 10:30pm, and I left the house at 8:35am and arrived home at 8:35pm, because of an evening visit to the hospital where my daughter (7 weeks from her due date) had gone to have a few things checked. She's not in labor, yet, and everything seems fairly okay. But it was cause for some worry because I didn't have any details whatsoever about why she was telling us to meet her at labor & delivery until after we got there. Shout out to D. for getting A. up there so quickly, too.

But I have submitted my poetry for the day. and am ready to wind down and hit the hay!

Last Days on the Cul-de-Sac and a Pearl Anniversary

Today marks 30 years - THIRTY YEARS, which is something like 186 dog years for larger breeds - that D. and I have been married. 

It's phenomenal, and we're smug and proud of ourselves, although D. keeps pointing to the length of the marriage of the recently widowed Queen Elizabeth II and her Prince Philip. Seventy-three years. It'll be tough to match that one, having tied the knot when we were a little bit older than the royal couple. 

If it weren't for the pandemic, we might have had a little get-together and renewed our vows. But we don't want to do anything like that via zoom. So we are not celebrating in any exciting way. Perhaps take-out sushi from Fuji. No cards, no flowers, no presents. But that suits us after 262,800 hours as man and wife.

And on another note, I've been trying not to duplicate posts between blogs, but this is from The Practical Poet: a link to the latest issue of The Racket Journal, which contains "Last Days on the Cul-de-Sac," one of my longer, darker poems. I'm so grateful to Noah Sanders for giving my little suburban apocalypse piece a home. 

The art on the cover and inside, as well as the other pieces of writing, make me feel extra humble to be in such talented company. I'm kind of pinching myself over hanging with the cool kids. 

Thank you, George and Ada

Shout out to George Saunders for A Swim in a Pond in the Rain. I'm about 100 pages into it, and already find myself applying his extremely helpful information about what makes writing effective and what makes it great.

And as I mentioned in my poetry blog, Ada Limón just had an essay come out in Lithub that is beautiful; thoughtful, moving, vulnerable, smart. All those things you want in a personal essay. (Or at least, all the things I want.)

On a completely different note, today there was both a car explosion (propane tanks to make hash oil) and an earthquake in Santa Rosa. I was not directly affected by either. I only mention it to indicate the interesting news of the day. 

With Success Come Insecurities

 I can see how, ironically, this might be the case.

One succeeds with writing by being published, which is wonderful, and what most writers want.

By being published, one is more likely to be read. And more likely to have someone not enjoy what they read. The more exposure, the more exposed one might feel.

In my case, at the moment, as truly fantastic journals are accepting a poem here and there, I am both grateful and nervous. I can see all the little flaws and imperfections of the poems, and I think maybe they don't hold their own the way I might like, and the way that I hope future poems could. But on the other hand, I trust the decision of the readers and editors who are publishing me, and I am extremely thankful to them. 

So I'm considering it a day like Molly Spencer described in her blog post (nearly 9 years ago) entitled "Today I hate all my poems." What I love most about her entry is the confidence that this feeling is temporary.

Why am I fraught with insecurities?

This is the question I just posed to the room. Only S. was in the room, and she sang a little song right away as an answer. It went: "It's be-cause you're an ar-tist!" 

You have to imagine the intonation of a musical number to get the real vibe, but it's her suggested answer. I'm less sure, but I appreciate the idea. I can say here what I won't likely say in my poetry blog, which is that I feel that nothing I write is any good, and that I shouldn't send out any more poems until I can do better. Not sure why I've hit this sudden low. I even ate a nice dinner, so I can't blame blood sugar. Perhaps it's the clutter I've moved from the living room to my office. The living room is now in fantastic shape. My office is a crazy collection of stacked paperwork and books, tottering every which way. Not conducive to confidence.

But I do comfort myself with the knowledge that even the greatest poets doubt themselves, so it's no wonder someone at my level would feel the same way. Maybe truly dreadful poets are the ones who don't question their capabilities. 

Downhill

There are decidedly fewer days left in April than have already passed, so I am on the "downhill" slope in terms of blogging in two blogs daily & submitting poems daily. And I'm one week into the current Whole Life Challenge.

With the headache I had most of the day, it was hard to concentrate and get things done. But once it passed, I was able to focus better. Drove S. and Mr. Darcy to the vets for an 8am appointment, walked the dog, cleaned the house more, had blood drawn & pressure taken & urine samples, all that jazz, for the insurance company, then worked on paperwork and weeding, went for a walk with D., a trip to storage, drove A. home, more yard work, poetry submissions, and now posting. A busy day - and it's after 9:30pm now! - but still it felt too short, knowing tomorrow starts another workweek. 

Quickly Approaching Fast

Tonight, D. & I will fast for blood tests tomorrow. We're thinking of getting new life insurance policies (controversial, I know), and this is part of the process. I just wish our appointment were earlier than 11am!

I expect to drink a lot of water in the morning to keep my stomach from being too hollow. And maybe I'll have a snack in an hour or so that will see me through better than going to bed without. 

I'm especially tired tonight, having done a lot today. D. is completely wiped out from his 2nd COVID vaccine yesterday. We make such a lively pair! 

Ready for the "weekend"

Working an odd weekly schedule means that the weekends I have are not the weekends that others have. But it affords me a blissful day of being alone and getting things done. Especially when not receiving vaccines and teeth cleaning followed by 15 hours of incapacitation from the former.

I make long lists of what to accomplish on my days off. If I do half of them, great. 2/3rds? Super! It occurs to me that a shorter to-do list would result in 100% completion if I played my cards right. Too bad it would be a winning hand but at the wrong game. 

A bit of good news during an otherwise sticky day: acceptance of a poem at a lovely journal. Hooray!

Work, work, poetry, poetry, sleep

After my usual morning walk and chores, then a long work day including three zoom meetings, another post-work zoom poetry meeting, and forty-five minutes finishing on a submission, I am ready to do my 10 minutes of stretching and one hour off media before going to bed! 

On another note, I have started reading A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, and am quite enjoying it so far. 

And if this is seeming more like a series of Tweets than blog posts, I refer you to the aforementioned daily schedule. 

Wane

This evening, after a very long and busy day (up before 7am, still working at 10pm),  I didn't think I could submit poetry to another journal and make two blog entries. But I was only kidding myself.

It's cold in the room where I write these entries, because the floor is the least insulated in the house, and the draft comes right up. (My fingers are stiff with the chill.) But I've put away the space heaters, and it's not cold enough otherwise to justify starting the wood stove. Maybe tomorrow.

For now,  I shall write a little longer, read a little longer, and be ever so grateful for a roof over my head and a bed with many blankets!