I’ve realized about myself lately that I spend a lot of time writing about writing. When I’m writing poetry, it’s all preliminary stuff for my blog. My blog is preliminary stuff for poetry. These two together are the prelims for something much greater, a larger piece I’ve been working on since I moved here, and even now it has not revealed itself to me. What it is, what it would like to be called. It comes and it goes. It is its own being, unto itself. It lets me know when it has something to say and when it is silent, it won’t be bothered by me. It won’t be troubled to speak when it cannot. I am subject to its beck and call, its every urge, and whim.
Is writing like that at all for you, too?
I kind of think, all of us have this idea of who we’d like to be, and I can’t help but wonder if as the days pass, as summer ends and what-do-you-know now it’s fall, were getting closer to who we want to turn into or if were kind of regressing.
What if a butterfly came out of her cocoon and instead of being a butterfly she was a crocodile? Maybe the whole, wide world would be shocked except for her.
I don’t know. I’ve been doing more sit-ups but, I kinda feel fatter. I decided to get bangs, and now I can’t see my eyebrows.
Crocodile or not, these, too, glorify.