Dear Reader,
Today’s writing session felt like rummaging through a junk drawer with a flashlight and accidentally discovering a Midwestern theology. The title of this latest, growing collection, The Gospel According to Shrug, still delights me.
The sun came out, only for a moment, but I was grateful for a glimpse. I find it inspiring, always. (Am I too weather focused? Too bad, WR says.)
Some days you write from inspiration; some days you write because your brain is pacing around muttering at fluorescent lighting and existential dread while clutching a gas station coffee. (Okay, I wasn’t, but a preacher in a poem was. Poor guy.)
That was me and Word Raccoon writing today. We apparently spent the morning building out what may or may not become an entire poetic universe. Current titles include:
- T-Shirt Cannonized
- Rotten Bottom Poetry
- Midwestern Existentialism Meets the Holy Ghost
- Crown the Cracker Barrel
- Death in a Small Town Without Enough Wastebaskets
- The Southern/Midwestern Writing and Cooking Incident
So, you know. Totally normal literary behavior. (More poems seem to be brewing.)
These poem towns were peopled by gas station prophets, thrift shops, funeral dinners, roller dogs, squash, and at least one deeply suspicious dressing room.
I found a groove today. One that feels funny and more like corduroy than record grooves. One of the poems says
I chop yellow squash in rhythm and remember/
poems I haven’t written.
So, you know, a typical Wednesday around these parts.
The best writing days, for me, are often less “I wrote a polished poem” and more “I discovered a hallway I didn’t know was in the house.”
Today felt like that.
No, that sounds too House of Leaves, a book that I’ve technically read but only because I was “supposed to.” I refused to retain anything of it.
Oh, calm down. It’s had plenty of success. My little murmur of disapproval will do nothing to harm it. It’s just not to my taste.
(Sorry, maybe it’s the three Skittles I just had, maybe I’m just feeling restless, but WR is hyper right now; she’s spinning and talking at full volume. She’s too playful.)
Now if you’ll excuse me, my brain appears to have tilted somewhere near the dishwasher, and Word Raccoon has entered a state best described as emotionally overcooked.
After writing WR and I:
Rowed at the gym.
Washed the car.
Unloaded and loaded the dishwasher.
Made supper.
Decluttered two cords and an old set of earbuds. Yeah, I’m awesome like that.
Misc. other things. Probably.
Reading next.
WR says: Protect the eyes from overreading, won’t you?
Thrift shops and prosy poems to you,
Drema
dremadrudge.com 