Now Playing: Don’t Stop Me Now, Queen

Go get ‘em, Freddie! Put that on repeat and your day will be made.

Y’all, I’ve felt rough the past few days, but today? Better.
Maybe it’s the caffeine, the breeze on the café porch, or the mercy of the rain finally moving on. (I love rain, just not when I’m trying to write outside.)

Maybe it’s that Freddie has my keyboard burning.

This morning started badly, one of those mornings where every small task felt enormous.
Unplugging my phone charger? Too much. (But I did it.) Picking up the cube after? Ugh. (But I did that, too.)

Mailing a birthday card felt impossible, even though I knew where everything was: the card, the labels, the address. The idea of locating stamps nearly did me in. Actually, I still haven’t. Guess I will have to stop by the post office later.

And getting dressed? T-shirt and shorts with a “I hate writing” scowl, or the fun outfit and WR’s earrings? Word Raccoon wasn’t having the scowl. I went with fun.

Wash my hair or let my curls get into a fistfight in a pile atop my head? The latter. Don’t look too hard at me.

I told myself it was “too late” to go to the café (it wasn’t). The rain was heavy (it passed). I didn’t know where my umbrella was (I found it).

And then I sat down, and WR said: You always have something to say. Write it.

But my “poetry power” has felt on dim the past few days, and I like feeling the fire when it’s so hot you’re like, I can’t possibly hold this and yet what if it goes away if I let go? So you close your eyes and let it burn, knowing the work is what matters, not the state of your hands.

Hands heal. Writing is forever. (Maybe that should be my first tattoo??)

I’ve been told I’m “high voltage.” I tried turning down my rheostat (is that what I mean?) but sorry, not sorry, that setting is now broken.

It’s just this temporary illness making things faint on the writing front, my body disagreeing with my mind. Guess which is going to win, guaranteed? (Don’t Stop Me Now…)

Hint: I’m writing. Now.

I started with a short review of a poetry chapbook I just finished by someone who went to the same grad school I did, though I don’t know her personally. She’s “extended” writing family:

“I recently finished Toothache in the Bone by Colleen S. Harris, and it deserves savoring. These poems explore illness and loss through striking, concrete images such as tattoos, medical needles, all physical experiences that stay with the reader. One line in particular, “Pain is a marriage / a commitment to death do us part,” lingered with me long after I put the book down.

I found myself pausing between sections to take in the weight of what she shares. The collection offers an unflinching look at the body under strain, and how the ordinary can help us grasp the unimaginable. I admire the skill and heart behind these poems.”

Not that I’m nudging you to buy it, to read it, or anything. (Nudge, nudge.)

I wrote a messy poem of my own, too, one that might become something later. I doubt it. It was written before I opened the portal today. Then again, it might have a seed? With a title like “Psychic Setlist,” it’s hard to say yet.

For now? I’m here. Writing. Not spiraling, as today could have easily turned into. That’s a minor miracle.

The ability to halt and reverse spirals? New superpower unlocked.

Thanks, Word Raccoon.

And Freddie, always, thank you. Mr. Mercury, danke, darling. It’s been a good day after all.