I am trying to morning. Word Raccoon is trying to help. But the internet is spotty, and it’s not letting us open our poems and it’s freaking us out.
What if the poems are gone forever? (They’re not.)
What if I didn’t save any of them anywhere else like we think I did? (We did.)
What if this means the universe is trying to tell me I’m the worst poet ever and my work should be banished?
Well, how exactly could I rule that one out?
We have been up since four a.m. Reasons unknown.
We are trying to tidy our poetry folders just a bit more before we start sequencing collections and jettisoning some of the poems into the “false flames” folder. (We prefer that to our earlier “archived and/or abandoned” folder title.)
Earlier, I told Stanley I wanted to use up a banana, some spinach, and an English muffin. He…asked me if I had yogurt and spat out a recipe for a smoothie bowl.
Yes, I like smoothie bowls.
But that’s not what I asked for, Stanley.
This guy.
Also, I was serious about WR having hidden the cinnamon. I may have to buy some more.
The internet is being a PITA.
Yesterday, I made it through the rest of the poems in my “Poems In Progress” folder.
Oh, Drema.
Some of the poems are embarrassing on every level. From concept to execution.
Some are ideas without images. “THIS IS A THING. THIS SHOULD NOT BE A THING. THEREFORE, LET’S STOP THINGING.”
WR says she sees nothing wrong with any of it, and I’m pretty sure she’s hiding a few of them under the pink chair with the cinnamon.
I think I’ve mentioned my digital folders before, but I’ve done some refining. I’m sure more refining is in the future, but only after the stupid internet straightens out.
(That’s okay, WR has a ticket for Wuthering Heights tomorrow and a sparkly new red dress. She’s bringing truffles. Who needs you, Internet? But please, please, don’t eat my poems!)
This is the new poem sorting system:
– Poems in Progress: poems that are capable of being something more than their untidy little selves but aren’t quite there.
– Ready to submit: That’s kinda self-explanatory, but if they have a star on them, that means “okay, you could probably go out but maybe comb your hair a bit.”
– Think Twice: I think this poem is just for you, Ducky. Let’s keep hold of it.
– Published: Yay! And don’t send this out again unless you send it to a place that accepts reprints.
– False Flames: a poem that just doesn’t have legs. I might borrow an idea in the future, and I can’t just toss it, because at the time, it was necessary.
– Poem Ideas: Don’t know what this line means? Toss it in the idea bin and see what happens later.
– Chapbooks and Collections: Poems that seem to belong together. I’m sorting them. Slowly.
There are a few more folders, but you get the idea.
I even discovered a few poems I hadn’t put into their own docs. Riding lawn flamingos is mentioned; never done it, but not saying I would never. Another has an item in it that we don’t talk about in polite society but poetry cannot be fucking polite, or what’s the point?
Okay, so some of the poems are dead-end poems. I seriously doubt I will do anything else with them; they were of the moment, they don’t have a pulse for whatever reason, but we save them not because we are pack raccoons but because even humble efforts deserve to be preserved.
I saw a video of Bob Dylan’s artwork last night, and yes, I’ve dabbled in painting, purposely not developing it past “fun.” But between the video of his work and reflecting on the different things I have tried, it’s not that I want to play it safe, it’s that I want to leverage my potential for impact.
I have things to say.
Maybe not-so original things. (Though I’d like to imagine I have some of those in my brain.)
Maybe not earth-shattering things.
But there are things I want to put out there.
And WR and I won’t rest until we do.
Also, we like noticing things others don’t, animating a bowl of soup, breathing life into a leaf, one individual leaf, because what if no one else sees it?
Oh god, have I mentioned my phase when I photographed dead birds? I couldn’t bear imagining them going unnoticed. A passerby looked at me in horror once when she saw me in action.
But all of that dead beauty. There was still beauty in its tragically flattened wings. (Is that too Road Runner?)
Listen, humans. We are legion.
There are billions of us out here.
There is no way to even say hello to everyone individually.
I asked Stanley to tell me how long it would take. He said with an approximate population of 8.1 billion people, it would take me about 257 YEARS to just say hi if it took only a second.
Guess who is not going to live 257 more years?
So this is my shot, duckies. I can notice my corner, my people, write about it. That’s all I can do.
My writing is just one way I do that. So keeping my poetry organized, learning how to deepen it, and writing more effectively? That’s important to me.
I know it’s going to take practice. And embarrassment. And false starts.
I know it’s going to take longer than it already has.
Same with my novels and short stories.
But this is my chosen lens.
Sure, I might take up casual painting again some day (said like someone who does not have a drawer full of painting supplies), but I’m kinda glad I didn’t devote myself to it: imagine the heartbreak when my fingers started acting up. Not using that as an excuse, because if I want to paint, I will G-D paint, results be damned.”
I don’t make excuses. I make art.
However flawed, incomplete. However ill-advised.
I am writing to those on earth, now: be present.
I am writing to the future: this is what it was like. This is what you might consider doing while you’re here.
I don’t make excuses. I make art.
Okay, that’s not where I expected this to go. Guess that’s what comes from being awake so early.
Word Raccoon is asking if we can please eat more than three bites of this smoothie bowl, since it’s already here. She says chia seeds may improve upon sitting, but that yogurt doesn’t.
And she knows there’s more Coke Zero, because she saw it in the refrigerator.
8.1 billion people, WR.
And we get to be one.
dremadrudge.com 