kid_hideous

It's just one of those days.

One of those days when so much is going on and I don't want a thing to do with any of it. The rain falls like veil after veil of minute feathers, shattering the light into gray billows, and all I want to do is curl up on the pappasan (no idea how to spell that) and smoke cigarette after cigarette, maybe try to write a poem or two.

Problem is, I haven't written a thing in at least a month. I've tried - oh yes, I've tried - but after a long onslaught of productivity, sending words and submissions flying, I've dried up. And at the worst possible time. I've got collaborations going with two of my favorite fellow poets, and not a word to send to either of them.

And for some godawful reason, I've agreed to work from home today (one of my usual days off), revising the 80-page monster we call our Training Guide. It's a sourcebook of ridiculous rules, and somehow, it is my job - today, a friggin' Sunday - to force it to make some sense!

And wouldn't you know it: Today's also the day that two fantastic poetry readings are going on. Over in Berkeley some of the greatest poets still living are going to read in about 3 and a half hours, and somehow I've got to try to work up the steam to go. Even though I don't really like readings all that much. Then there's another this evening, at which one of the old guard of Bay Area poetics will be reading with the new guard. And I feel like I should go to that too.

But I don't really want to. Grr.

Guess it's time to get to work. I wish I could just work without having to participate in all the social dynamics that can really propel one's writing.