Living room now. My Girl has her quads practice pad out. "I love the bounce on this. So much better than the real drums," she says.
While she practices, I will shower.
After I shower, she will shower.
After she showers, we'll go driving (practice for tomorrow's driving test).
I started watching Howl last night but wore out (it was 2:30 a.m. when I finally shut off the DVD player and crawled into bed). It's not what I expected it to be. It's more about the words, about the poetry, than about the "lurid" details of Allen Ginsberg's life. It makes me happy.
I am obsessed with poetry
but haven't written a new poem
And now, I have this novel premise I dreamed that keeps nudging my hand when I try to write stanzas instead of paragraphs.
Do me! Look at me! I know I'm not high art or even vaguely literary. I know I'm just entertainment and weirdness. But you know you want me. You know I intrigue you. You're hungry for me the way I'm hungry for you to write me.
The plan has shifted. The Girl hit a snag on one of the pieces, doesn't know how to play it so she'll have to wait until Boss Boy returns from Vegas where his mom lives (he spends summers with her and the school year here with his dad and step-mom, but that's not really part of this post). She will shower and then I will shower
and then we'll go driving.