Everything Old Is New Again . . .
I found an old poetry journal from a class I took in college. I am happy to report that going back through it, I am pleasantly enamored of its words and phrases for the most part. There are some responses to specific prompts, some pages of "Random Tidbits" which gathered this or that odd snitch of wording from the air, and some free-form journaling. I will share a few of those things here, and I will not edit those original words. If possible, I might scan a page or two and add those in later.
I will begin with a journal style entry where our only prompt was to write about our current process of writing:
So, not knowing what ot write, I begin anyway -- the intrepid adventurer yearning to conquer the endless unknown territory: the blank page . . .
. . . or the lined page, as it were.
But that is neither here nor there . . .
My process used to be simple. Step one: sit. Step two: write. The world flowed in and was filtered through my innocent, wide-eyed wonder, and the words spilled onto the page, a gift from the cosmos, and for this I was called brilliant (or disturbed . . . I guess it all depended on which muse was singing that day). Now, however, not so much. The words are unruly; I have to become the WWE Women's Champ just to get them to pretend to stay in line. I have a fleeting thought or randome concept fly at me from the top rope, and I have to counter and pin it before it gets away. There's also the matter, albeit small, of time! In my younger years, there was no homework (yes, even when I was in school), no houseowrk, no job-work, and no kid-work to attend to. Now, I have to worry about so many things and wear so many hats that it's a wonder I haven't gone into haberdashery (did I spell that right?). I simply don't have the time to sit and write and read and smile or read and revise or reap what I sow or sow the seeds of love or love the one I'm with
Poetry is no longer fluid . . . . . .
(That's why I rarely write in cursive anymore)
In fact, the only reason I'm "allowed" to write in this journal is precisely because it is "homework," so the hour or minute or, let's face it, nine point two seconds I've alloted (I don't think that's spelled right, either) to do homework is now fully occupied.
This is also why I can't get to readings, by the way. There are always papers to grade or tanks to fill or children to rush to the emergency room because they decide their nose is the most handy-dandy storage space immediately available . . . . Dear God, what I wouldn't give for a coffee mainline and a bout a million and three dollars!
Oh, yeah, and by the way, the Professor's daughter is an oracle. Of course I'm writing this on the day it's due . . . along with the other four or more trains of thought I'll be setting on the tracks in the next few pages. So, sue me. When this was assigned, I thought, "Forty minutes a day? No problem. I have a fifty minute planning period. I got this!" Little did I know that my planning period is much better served when used for *gasp* PLANNING!!
That said, the other trains are threatening to rebel, derail and destroy some small, innocent unsuspecting hamlet, so . . .
Onward and . . .
Oh, you know the rest!
