Sunday, October 30, 2011

Petal Management

I am thinking of what I can do which might help me to focus, but that sort of thinking rarely grants me focus. That sort of thinking is a kind of signal which I may or may not heed, so I write here hoping this activity will bring me to the heeding point in a style of recognition and understanding. Bear with me.

Wanting to live for and in the future - yet I have no exact idea what that means. Perhaps I am repeating myself in my moods. That would explain the semblance of a page, a blank page, day after day. I think this, and feel a spark of recognition and understanding. But that is all. I do not experience decision-making. I am not often excited by decisions. They seem all alike, being the occasions of a person's literal being making notes upon a will. I am not arguing for non-action though. I am simply not arguing.

This goes on for awhile until I move as if motivated by a basic need to move - uncontrollably, I tell myself. And I write. I do not trust it. I do not trust a person who cannot live as they should live when the means are in their reach. Here, weekend after weekend, I encounter the blank page and wallow and retire and sleep. Being merely capable is not enough for me to work. I must be over-capable. So charged with rest that I cannot stay in bed.

I think of distractions. One change I made recently was to pare down the intensity and frequency of my workouts during the week, which were at times exhausting me so that I would need two days to recover. Then, there are politics and social-networking - which are largely one and the same thing. I think I will do this week what I did two weeks ago with my workouts, which is to promise myself to cut back.

This is beginning to create a kind of sense. Here I sit, writing. I may write a poem. I then will turn the computer off, or at rate avoid the news, the politics, and the networking for the entire remainder of the day. Tomorrow morning I go to the computer last having written on it. What will be my expectations? They may first be to write. That after all is what I am missing. The expectation, the lead into the act. I have acquired a habit of responding, relaying, playing to a subject. That is politics, not poetry as I understand poetry or must, being the manner in which I write it.

Saturday, October 15, 2011


Water and earth do not lie, but you will tell me what is right and wrong about people we have never met. You can never know why a thought appears, but I will fall apart without a kind word or look at least every now and then. You are being reasonable, but I am thinking about what I need to get to a better place. I look over the landscape and say, I need to slow down. I am not a young man any more. I cannot rebound from error and I cannot afford mistakes. You will not hear this from me because one mistake would be if I distracted you from your purpose.

I assume you have purpose. The media - which is a word that is fluid with dictionary meaning - tells me what you do. Expert commentators step in and out like water birds too full to fish and too fragile to remain on land.

I know how things are done, which is merely saying I do, without knowing one way or another, but not feeling like I am lying either. I am not feeling like I am lying, but I know that depends on me, not you or some outside source for truth measurement. I think the same is true for you, but I can never be certain. Some avenues go further than others, but none are utter or complete. Certanly, I have never come close to circling back to myself, to seeing myself from a distance so as to be able to form an opinion that I could return to myself for some purpose. I do not know what it would be.