, ,

Renderings that come from what’s going on inside.

Goal for the end of the month: Put together poems for chapbook contest. Looking forward to seeing what I can come up with. Reading on the past makes me squeamish, actually. Was I really that person there, in those words, in that moment? And how did I come to be here today, the one who can’t sleep but gets up and drinks lukewarm coffee in the mornings surfing the net for news, for a laugh with Fallon, who watches the clock for the work day to begin, who is afraid to touch South (that is, emotion)  because of everything that lies there? I will have to go back there, to bring these poems to life again, get strong with them, and launch them forward. Otherwise, they lay flat on a page in a dusty file folder.  What else are they there for, why else did I write it? Was it all cathartic, or is there something more there?  That’s the trick, to find out.

I am present, I am here with me in this real, in this quiet house. Only now have I learned how to breathe from a centered place and look forward, actually see it, and although it is scary, I am ready.  What renderings are yet to come, what horrific lonely sunrises will I write about then?  Too soon to say from 9:08 on a September morning, but at least I know I’m in charge of the words I put on that page.

Another goal:  re-do my business cards in 12-point, dammit!