It's been a while since I was deliberate about my writing. The first year I wrote, I wrote roughly 600 pages worth of poetry. I guess you could say I uncorked, in the words of Stephen King. In the 5 months of 2008, I've not written 100 pages. I suppose there's a time to write and a time to adjust to life changes, a time to learn to keep a house, whereas for the last 5 years I've had a really good excuse to live in a pigsty. Those changes carry a lot of unintended consquences, and while I don't think they're permanent- I'm still painting, I still write now and again, and one of these days I'm going to play my guitar again- it still smarts to see the blank canvases on the floor in the living room, and to open Pages and realize how many experiences this year have gone by without my having marked them in the way to which I am accustomed. For no reason but my own hang ups about no longer being a wage-earner, and what it means to be a contributor to a household when this is the case, creativity often gets pushed to the back-burner. I shall attempt to take my Beloved's attitude toward and valuation of such things- he has only ever been 100% supportive and encouraging re: my artistic bent- and be more deliberate about setting aside time each day to write and create.
2 June 2008, 10:29 AM
When I fail to write, the words
withdraw like a slighted lover
watching from the door, waiting for him
to turn and take her in his arms
for one last kiss, a moment stolen
from a day of relentless demands,
all of which threaten to steal away
the vigilance which never lets me forget
what is needful, what is not. Eventually,
I fear she’ll fail to wait, I’ll fail to see, she
will fail to watch from the door, and I
will fail to be a poet.