Sometimes, the day just falls in to place. Today was one of those days. Nothing special happened, but the things that happened all felt good and right (mostly). I had a decent breakfast and spent the morning reading and writing. I’ve been trying to finish one of the books of poetry I’ve been reading, but I’m finding that I need to take breaks from it more often than usual. Today I opted to swap it out a couple of times with some Stephen Dunn poems. After writing a post this morning, I exercised (that’s the mostly felt good part). I have a bit of a pinched nerve somewhere in my neck. I get this from time to time and it tingles/ hurts down my left arm all the way to the elbow. It’s probably from sitting poorly or some other dumb thing that I do (maybe pushups, who knows).
The afternoon involved lunch, coffee, reading, some short naps, and more reading. I finished the book Periscope Heart by Kai Coggins. I have mixed feelings about it. It didn’t hold me the way the Mary Oliver book did, and at times I felt like the subject matter or how it was written about was too repetitive. All of that said, I also found some of the ideas inspiring, and as I read, I kept thinking – my writing may not be far off. It seems silly to do comparisons, but I felt like if this is publishable, mine might be too. I still need a critical mass – I’m just shy of 30 poems. I still need to go through several of these books and copy lines down.
Sometime just before lunch I was thinking about writing and needing to send my stuff out to some other poets for feedback. I was thinking a bit about my former professor. I was thinking about how I had suggested to my ex-fiancee, B, that she and I do a writer’s retreat together. I was ashamed that my suggestion wasn’t 100% pure. I liked the idea of a writer’s retreat, and I would have liked to do one with her, but I was also afraid of the experience… I had an irrational fear that it was the type of thing where I would lose her if she went on her own, or maybe even if we went together. I was afraid that she’d fall in love with some wavy haired poet who would sweep her off her feet. As I thought about this, I could see how the different things were tied together… and only now, a few hours later and with some different thoughts am I cutting myself some slack. I once talked about being a bartender with a woman I was dating and she said she’s not sure how comfortable she would be with me being in that environment – jealousy is a somewhat natural feeling, especially early on. As for the jealousy over the retreat that never happened – I was acutely aware that some of it stemmed from having been cheated on in my first real relationship… to some degree, that type of loss never goes away. I can still remember the scene from The Wall during the song “Nobody Home” in which he keeps calling home to no answer, and then eventually a man answers. But my professor factored in as well. He and I got along really well. He was instrumental in helping me launch a literary journal and in sparking my interest in poetry. He was also a soft-spoken guy, a little unkempt in the professorial way that Harrison Ford was in Indiana Jones. The young women in the class looked at him a little dreamily. One woman, who was very attractive, seemed to be very close with him… eventually, a few years after I graduated he left the university. The rumor was that he had an affair with a graduate student (he was married with kids). Here was another person I respected and trusted, a little like a father figure, and was let down by his moral failings. I think for much of my relationship with B, I was always a little surprised she was with me. It was a weird feeling, because it wasn’t from a lack of confidence or thinking I wasn’t deserving… it just seemed like the things I appreciated in her were things I couldn’t possibly bring to the table (hence my journey to be the person I want to find – or found). For me jealousy is more about the other man (and probably my insecurities) than it is my partner. I can have all the trust in the world in my partner, I don’t trust silver tongued poets, or other men in general.
Admittedly, that was not where I was going with this post, but I’ve come to accept the uncomfortable confessional turns my journaling takes. That’s also another instance where writing about my thoughts took much more time and energy than the actual thoughts did…
The pleasant day continued when I decided to try to make some pasta sauce from a can of tomato sauce, a can of stewed tomatoes, etc. etc. It was nice to put the time in to a real meal, sweating the mirepoix, building some flavors. The sauce turned out to be one of the best I’ve made. Since it’s been a shit-show trying to get food, this small success made me really happy. With better ingredients (not store brand), it would have been even better. I’ll always miss B when I cook (until I don’t), but I’m glad I’m getting back in to it. I had dinner and a glass of wine and settled in to an article on Brain Pickings about the power of music – it was essentially a collection of quotes from other authors. It was heartening to see so many writers and thinkers elevate music to the highest art from… acknowledging that it can pierce the heart, uplift, distract – say what can’t be said with words. Of course I loved the Vonnegut quote on music “made being alive almost worthwhile.” What I also got from the article was how many of the writers practiced writing in a diary or some other journal as a way of spurring on creativity. I plan to read a bit more about this.
With the time I have left tonight, I’d like to paint. The other night when I closed my eyes, I saw a number of different shapes and colors, and thought that would be a great way to try an abstract painting. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to recreate that experience. Every time I’ve tried today, all I get is black and gray, no colors, no shapes, no abstractions.
I suppose if I have to spend a day isolated, some good music, reading and writing, napping with the cat, and a decent meal seem to be a nice way to go.