Sunday, April 29, 2012

Playpen Balladries

Hard week at work, interesting to review. I got quite angry in a closed meeting with a particular individual and rightly so, as I believed, and with HR agreeing. Then came the period of sorrow even as everyone around me (including this individual) rallied to support me in my extra work. And now, I realize that yes, I was right to be angry. The reactions of others are proper too, but even as I regret friction, I have nothing I can regret in my heart except that a thing occurred which was unpleasant. I cannot say I am sorry that the world is this way. I am instead weirdly grateful - well, it's not so weird. I am typically grateful that something perhaps has been accomplished if this individual has learned something, if work goes well; but it is weird to say that the anger was okay, when our expressions of anger are usually so incredibly inappropriate and damaging. Still, I hope never to go through anything like that again, or not anytime soon. It took me out of myself, and combined with long hours at work, there wasn't much left at week's end.

As well, oh, I hope no one who reads this ever has to work too hard to love and pray. It has been a week to take your breath away. I am leery of "resolutions" one way or the other - I have found it is best to breathe deeply while you can and put your hope into a positive attitude going forward. Monday morning will be here soon enough, and quick feet will serve me better then a hardened heart or one liable to disappointment and dismay.

It would be nice if my tendencies toward form meant that I was organized and practical, but I am not. Not particularly so. I go by instinct and priority. I do not burden myself with the form of specific hopes of accomplishing this or that by then or now. I end up where I need to be, most times, as I am capable of work, but I cannot claim to have a system or a plan - a form for how it is done.

Form, instead, is a precept and a container or event - consider the ring, the square, the cross. I write in form; I do not live it. I am no predictor of form even as I routinely produce particles of  rectangular shape. In twos and threes they describe an untidy playpen where the regularity of the surfaces of the objects belies the clutter of clusters of uneven groups. I am working on a poem several pages in length that shows this aspect in apparent detail, I trust.

Back to writing poems. I hope everyone has a lovely Spring week - and that at least one of you falls in love.

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