Sunday, June 7, 2015

What I haven't said

I spent this morning in my home office, writing, trying to process all that has happened during my week at Bread Loaf Orion, trying to decompress. I journaled. I wrote a letter to a friend (by hand!). I have the seeds of a new poem geminating in my head, but have yet to put it in ink. And now, I am here. With two young children (out of three) sitting with journals of their own, whispering to each other and writing. I know what it sounds like: oh, how sweet! Trust me when I say this moment will last another thirty seconds. And I want at least thirty minutes to write this post. My youngest is already moaning about being bored, about not wanting to participate in the game her sister has invented, one that involves naming letters (sounds like a modified version of Hangman). And I am back, vacillating between wanting to engage with them & their game and wanting to set cereal boxes on the kitchen table, telling them to eat, and allowing them all the television they want so I can write.

Welcome home.

I'm already missing the magic of Bread Loaf, of being among people who share in my passion of language and life, of commas and the earth. Of being in the mountains. As I reread the posts of my experiences this past week, I notice that there is a lot unsaid. What is that about? Is it about a lack of time to explore what I want to share? That's part of it. Is it about a reluctance to really be open & vulnerable to the oft-times terrible world that is the internet (namely, the trolls)? Maybe. But what I have pushed myself to do all week was to allow myself to remain in uncomfortable spaces, to venture into unfamiliar locations. To take risks. So why should a blog post be different?

Soooo, let's see...

I've been thinking about my conversation with Ross about poems, about the making of poems and their origins, about the different positionings of a speaker, about the positions of poems themselves -- coming from a place of knowing versus a place of not-knowing. And I'll tell ya: I loved that conversation, loved how I had to think (!) to really THINK and explore and examine. But what do I want to say about it here? I'm not sure. I just know that I wanted to at least make mention of it.


I think I've lost my momentum, my train of thought, due to the presence of little children, arguing over who gets to control the mouse (I have since allowed them access to, a site comprised of learning games for primary grade school children.) in the small space of my office that once was peaceful with silence. Shit. Moment's gone. Guess I'll feed us all breakfast now.

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