Ravens and Dogs

Deeply entertwined. Who knew.

A Cento

A few days ago Paul Hoover posted "American Gestures," a poem of 100 lines, all of them taken from other poems. Delicious. I liked coming across Dante, there all of a sudden, in the middle of the dark wood.

Conversation in the Back Seat

We were driving back to Albuquerque from the Grand Canyon, in a minivan with my two brothers, and my child and my brother Jim's two kids, and heard this, from the far back:

13year old girl, to 11 year old brother: Are you wearing one of my socks?
11 year old brother: I found it.
My child, 12 year old cousin: It's pink!
11 year old brother: That doesn't matter. Boys can wear pink.
13 year old girl, exasperated: That's not the point! You're wearing my sock!

Oh, right. Saturn Return.

I posted earlier today about terror, and writing, and writing anyway.



And then I worked on the blog.



And then I remembered that I had, essentially, blown up my life so that I would be ready for the second Saturn return.



And then I realized that I'm beginning to go into the second Saturn return.



Got sober for the first -- getting real for the second.

Oh, damn.

Invoking Writing

I suppose if one invokes poetry long enough one has to sit down and write.

I've been doing that for a while -- I asked Laura how long has it been? and she says sometime in late June.

I started getting up and making tea and taking it upstairs, and just writing. Every morning. Although apparently I didn't do it every monring when we were at the Grand Canyon. Fair enough. I was keeping it together.

And so now I have things I have written and am writing and am going to write -- that is, finished pieces, drafts, and notes.

And what I find is that I'm terrified. There's not even an "of what." There's just terror.

So tomorrow I will get up and do it again.