This was Friday:
I am not lost but I feel lost. No. I do not feel lost I feel left behind. It’s more an abandonment than a getting lost. Or perhaps it is more of a cutting off, a disconnection. It is an island but not a pretty one. I want to build bridges, maybe even a boat. I could live on my island if I just had a small boat. There is no boat. There might be coconuts, perhaps I should check.
No writing news. No rejections, no acceptances. Not enough stuff out there. One submission done this week One poem drafted everyday but no edits done. No Competitions. I hate them. I am quitting the comps. It is March and I am failing all my resolutions. Or just failing.
Good things. Some days almost pain free. Like finding a luxury ice-cream parlour on a summer’s day. Not good things. I am sad just now. I think perhaps it’s grief. Lots of grief. Years of it bundled up in a ball that’s sticking in my chest like a fist. I thought at first it was shame, I have been writing nothing but shame poems but just this week I read a piece about grief and somewhere in the hills of my wee brain a bell rang. Maybe it was a goat, Heidi and her Grandfather herding. Or maybe I am on to something. Or maybe I am losing the plot. Probably that.Watch Full Movie Online Streaming Online and Download
The children are little suns. I am lucky. I am rich. They are heating the house, me. They want apples, banana’s, biscuits, bread. I like to make them soup. It makes me feel wholesome, farm-housey. The youth theatre is good. Young people being creative is like fresh full-fat milk. I like the work because it take me out of my own head. I like the young people because they are remarkable. Always I learn more from them, always. And I like to learn. I am sure if the Dr would prescribe me a weekly workshop with someone interesting I would be fine and dandy. I am far from everything. I feel like I fell off a train. Everyone else is at their destination, I’m sitting on my arse in some random bush, twigs up my bum. I’ve fallen off a lot of trains. I am good at that. Maybe I should try and catch another train. Or maybe I should stay in my bush and hope Moses doesn’t pitch up.
This was Saturday:
Today is a good day. I feel well within myself, happy. The housework is actually sort of done. I was up at 5:30, I drafted three poems, they might be real ones. I had quiet time, the kids didn’t wake up early. I read Emily Berry poems. I fed my kids and my neighbours kids and my neighbour with the soup. My children played outside. I got some work done on an application. I didn’t feel wretched. I talked with a friend on-line. I needed help with something and another friend came round to help me, the world is a good place. Later in the day I had a poem accepted by Prole. It was one about my Dad. This is special, I have been trying to write about my Dad’s death for a long time, failing. Strangely one of my three poems this morning was also about that. I think it might be a real poem. I wasted time watching TED talks. I had a rest, I might be getting the hang of this pacing milarky. I feel better for it. I built an icy snow castle for the kids with chairs and blankets. I let them have tea in it. I am planning an early night. The kids are watching bad Let it Go versions on You Tube. I am drinking too much Peppermint tea. It is a good day.
Today is Saturday. Some days are Friday but Saturday will come.