Monday, January 2, 2012

I will write free or burst (one)

Shower runs. Stuff in house builds itself up on top of stuff in house. Last day off before my daughter's next semester of high school begins. I have one more week before my next semester of grad school begins. I have not used this time off wisely to catch up by writing reams of new poems as I'd planned. I turned into a pudgy sloth, physically and mentally.

Ho ho ho.

Snow last night and today, light. Just licks the streets and yards, tips the cars. Tonight and tomorrow may be worse, but "worse" is relative.

I miss my relatives, but not all relatives. I miss my sister (and her family) and my brothers (and their families). Sometimes I feel as if I'm no longer a part of any family at all except my two and a half person family here in Ohio.

If I stretch my fingers out as far as the tendons and skin will allow, I might be able to touch my sister's face.

The coffee is strong. I love the way it feels thick on my tongue.

I will say this once to get it out of the way and then get out of my own way as soon as my semester starts: I'm terrified about this next semester, worried I will not be able to prove myself better than the professor thinks I am or could be. I am older than she is and probably have been writing longer, but not writing poetry longer, not writing poetry in the mindful way that she writes poetry. I'll just have to keep reminding myself to Be Open; be brave. I can and have and will and want to and when I allow the work itself, the poems themselves, to be in control, oh, such joy!

What will I do with this MFA when I'm done? It doesn't really matter.

I'm supposed to begin teaching some workshops Jan. 23, but I don't think they'll make. I could probably make them make.

The shower has stopped. My daughter is done or will be soon.

My eyes are gluey, but I feel all right today, not too tired, not too panicked, happy enough, healthy enough (if a little plumper than I like).

I feel like posting a minor disclaimer here or reminder: this is not a blog; it's a journal.

*

ps - Oh God! The sound of my child laughing as she Skypes with her dear friend warms me. She needs this laughter.