From the corner of my charcoal gray sofa in the not yet nine am sunlight, I pause my reading and writing to answer a text. We’ll meet at the Polk thing at 1. The we being one of my friends and I and the Polk thing being a street fair with music and beer and people enjoying the sun. The pause leads to another pause, a grateful pause. I’ve had the type of morning I love to have: lost in words and images and thoughts and mental play. I wrote (or at least drafted) four new poems this morning. I read maybe a dozen more.
As I walked towards the bathroom and contemplated getting ready, I played a thought experiment in which I gave myself (and some imaginary class of writers) a prompt. Finish the scene: “a few drunken days in Mexico.” The thought experiment was focused on wondering how different people might describe that scene – where is it and who are they with? The loners project Hemingway – out of town gringo in tannish-gray (maybe beige) nondescript clothing lurking in the shadows, half-drunk in the corner of a dusty bar. Others probably imagine it with a group of friends – a week-long party, probably near the water at a seaside resort. I was picturing a couple who wanted to get lost, blend in, spend lazy days under an impossible sun. Maybe they’re stuck. Maybe they’re working through some things. Maybe they’re waiting out the end of the world.
I should get a shower and get ready. I have some work to do before the Polk thing. But I want to linger longer. I almost always want to linger longer. I also want to stop at a local book shop. Earlier this week, I went to a poetry reading in one of the city’s grand Cathedrals. I heard some local poets whose work I enjoyed. It’s independent bookstore day, and I want to support the bookstores and the local poets. Tomorrow, there’s an open studio thing (artists and their artwork) in a part of town I have not yet visited. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a similar start to the day.