bitten by the bug

So one of our regular guests (whose name I won't mention because he is still registered in the hotel) patrons Trident every morning when he is in town.

He has been in town for the last two weeks. When I saw him tonight in the hotel Corner Bar, he asked me what I was writing. "I see you working diligently every morning, it's obvious that you are bitten by the bug." I took that to mean writing, although I admit I imagined being bitten by you. I had to smile. I told him about my books.

What is it with bugs lately?

"Nice ponytail!" said a different guest last night as I took her up our antique elevator. I have met her before. She is a famous American singer/songwriter whom I greatly admire, in fact, I wrote and dedicated a poem to her (which was published in Hammers in Chicago in 1990). Of course, I did not tell her this! That would just feel stupid.

I took her up our elevator again tonight, she was flushed.

"We just danced for 45 minutes on the bus." she told me. "Really?" I said. "Do you do that after every show?" "No." She said, "Just when the energy is right."

This is what I admire most about this woman ... her attitude!

My boss Satan seems to think that she would appreciate the poem.

in-stinc-tiv-i-ty

So how do we account for this?

This morning I saw a flock of birds turn on each other in a tree in the front yard. The blunt red howling of an ambulance unhinged them before my eyes.

Chances are ... I could tell you when a snake is nearby (doing it's snakely things), perhaps even what kind of snake this is likely to be, or not to be. At the very least, I could tell you where not to climb trees or swim.

Don't make eye contact with this person!

reconstruction mojo

So here I fix the mojo that was slapped on Volume 6, Issue 8 of Poetry Victims.

I think the mojo was in my poem!

While you're at it, check out my new book fifteen minutes...

Volume 6, Issue 8

While I'm swimming in the images I'm conjuring up as I write my book All Roads Lead to Johannesburg, here is a new issue of Poetry Victims featuring photography by Sheng Wen Lo and new poetry by Edward Wells II.

anyplace worth being is a pain in the ass to get to

So nothing comes easy, in fact, somehow I distrust things that do.

Take for example...

Our reading in Commons Park last Saturday night. Because the park is in downtown Denver, finding parking nearby is a pain in the ass. I parked in front of Union Station and walked the half mile or so to where we congregated. I was late and groggy and welcome and it was nice. It's important to have a...

Speaking of Downtown!

Speaking of Churches!

Church Street has been on my mind lately. At the time it was the longest street in the world, running right through downtown Pretoria and Church Square. Once I started High School I switched buses near Church Square, therefore, I spent a lot of time loitering suspiciously in the area. From my notes, it appears that I have left out a significant amount of my equally suspicious High School activities.

Chapter Three is almost done (this is where stuff is beginning to happen).
I am sending Chapter Two to my editor (Jami) this morning.
Chapter One has already been edited, and waits patiently while I consider changes.

Somewhere around Chapter Six or Chapter Seven I'll need to start adding new chapters.

Last night (Wednesday, I mean) I started listening to Neverwhere (by Neil Gaiman) on CD while driving to work. I decided that I need more than just Non-Fiction to absorb. I get to work last night (again Wednesday) to find an email from Jami, suggesting that I take Neil Gaiman (not him ... his writing) in the car with me. It's in the air apparently.

So I'm driving home this morning (Thursday, I mean) with Neil reading full blast with the windows down. I pulled off the highway and came to a stop at the light beside a guy whose windows were also down.

At that very moment, Neil suddenly screamed the name of one of the characters...

"DICK!"

It stood there hanging in the air between us.

I looked at him. He looked at me. I shrugged. We drove away.

mantra

I trust in me.
I believe in myself.
I trust my instincts.
I believe in my ability.
I trust my judgment.
I believe in what I feel when I wake every night.
I trust in what carries me through all my waking hours.
I believe in the light.
I trust in you.

words already written

So I'm trudging through chapter three, mixing confident words already written with shy new ones.

I'm squeezing the stories out of the old poems like lemons, sprinkling them with new perspective.

I'm looking at seeds of inspiration.

I'm looking at clues.

I'm looking at me.

I'm looking at you.

writing for my life

So my reprieve was just that, in the most literal of senses.

While speaking to a representative of the Child Support Division of Texas on the phone yesterday, I was told that the decreases in my payments this month were, in fact, temporary. It appears I have been grossly miss-informed.

On July 1st, the payments return to the previous amount ... where they will remain for another nine (that's right nine) years.

In my wildest dreams I could never hope to entertain us for nine years.

Might as well be a life sentence.

I go now ... to write for my life.

buckle up

So you are right (both of you).

It's about courage!

And Lynne is right about the Mantra thing.

And Jami is right about what she wrote on her work blog ... (We're not the only writers in the family).

Yesterday, I removed all the hurdles I have placed in front of myself lately. I bowed out of the Artist's Guild of Boulder. I wrote to the Editors of Sketchbook (suggesting a leave of absence per se). I have cut myself back to reading only two books (both of which I feel I truly need just now), and I have ended all collaborative efforts.

I will, however, continue to patron poetry venues when the urge strikes me, but I won't stress about whether I'm going to read or no!

Today, I sat down at Trident, opened my steno pad and wrote "All Roads Lead to Johannesburg." To my surprise, the very same first line (as in the first Sketchbook segment) appeared magically on the page. The second line (and the many that follow) are new.

Strap in baby, it's writing time again!

i know a little

So my Sister Jami once told me that my affinity for the Internet concerned her, something questionable about the lure of instant gratification. She doubted the wisdom of posting or publishing my poetry online without benefit of future revisions. She was of course (from her perspective) ... correct!

At this juncture in my life where I am evaluating my efforts, my career as a writer, my commitment to my dream, where I am, how I got here, where I want to go, how I will get there. Have my efforts been wasted? I think not. On the contrary, I think the Internet has greatly enhanced my chances to advance my career and network. It offers me avenues of opportunity, but more importantly ... it inspires me! It leads me to people who inspire me. At times it even involves me in the evolution of your thoughts, where I am indeed honored and privileged to be.

the trouble with me

So I have seen and known and felt and experienced so many incredible and unlikely and horrific and wondrous things in my life- sometimes it is hard to believe what I know to be true.

Lately, I am learning something more of truth.

My truth is inside me and it amounts to this...

I trust in me.
I believe in myself.
I trust my instincts.
I believe in my ability.
I trust my judgment.
I believe in what I feel when I wake every night.
I trust in what carries me through all my waking hours.
I believe in the light.
I trust in you.

here is where i'm at

All Roads Lead to Johannesburg.

the monkey on my back

So while I do realize my life is not a piece of cake, it is never-the-less my life, hard won. A life demanding and full of anxiety and surprises and rewarding in the utterly strangest of ways. As long as it is my life, in that, as long as I profess to have some say in it (albeit temporarily limited) it is still my life to do with as I please. I have worked hard on my little life, inventing opportunities, trying hard to make something out of it, to make sense of it, to give it purpose, to give it hope, to make it a big life.

the people in shishou are angry

here's a video

here's why

Check it out!

written last night

So it's Father's Day and I am at Mercury. The piece on your father has stuck with me all day; while I shopped for groceries, while I drove down beautiful Marshall Road to hike a trail with Amy and Jack, later while I sat alone on the grass in Chautauqua, while I drove back to Denver and here now.

Your words draw out memories of my fathers. For instance, walking with Daddy George on a trail like I did today would swiftly have become a Geology lesson, peppered with bird watching and flower identification and the ever important snake awareness. I then thought of Daddy Jim, my skinny arms around his waist as we drove up Mt. Evans on a motorcycle.

This brought me to Justin. I remember driving him and his mother in the mountains heading towards Breckenridge from Colorado Springs. He was a toddler and had never been in the mountains before. I watched him in the rear view mirror ... strapped in his car seat looking from side to side, from a cliff face towering out of sight on the right to a nothing at all on the left. He was clearly scared. "Don't worry Justin," I said, "Daddy grew up around here, everything will be alright." He instantly relaxed and even smiled. Such trust! It touches me still.

Next came the memory of me and Justin on top of Pike's Peak. I had picked him up in Kansas City (where he lived at the time), he was 13 years old. We drove to Colorado. I was to help my step-mother settle Dad's affairs since he was completely overwhelmed by Alzheimer's. I told Justin that he didn't have to go inside the nursing home (which I knew he dreaded ... having already witnessed our care-giving efforts in Tulsa), but that I hoped he would come inside with me to see my father (just like I was his father). He did!

Today, I took a jaunt around the world. And while I am thankful en mass for these memories, It's as much that I am just so very happy to see you writing again.