I see that I write about intent a lot. Perhaps I am a poet of intent. Perhaps intent is the medium of the amateur, one who never achieves anything more than to live in desire.
If so, I am happy with intent.
I am never more alive than intending to write only, then writing with only that intent; or, having written with my intent intact. Certainly, I do not claim to have achieved anything. But then the world is not perfect, even with all the poetic achievement that others have realized.
I am not alone intending, but I am present in intent in a way that others, perhaps, are present with their achievements.
I do not mean to suggest anything to a purpose, to being right, to being anything other than what I state here. I write a lot about intent. I suppose, that if everyone were to intend well, the world might be a better place. Not to write, for only writers are defined by writing. For us, writing is more than a means to one or another achievement. And for me writing is at its best - speaking personally - an event where the person intends to write, and write well. To write truly, without impediment.
What is writing? It is an occurrence realized in artifact. I do not feel, personally, that I am present in what I have done. Such matter and material is only a trail. No, I am present in desire. In desire I am present and write. In desire, I care to exist. From the perspective of writing, I do not exist, regardless of what has been written.
I have in fact a strange career. For the life of me, I cannot locate it, yet it seems to have no boundaries. I am not forever starting over (oh, I remember that feeling...) but, 20-odd years later, I am nowhere I can name as being one thing or another.
I do know, that if you were to say You have done this or that, I would say It does not matter. Or, if you were to suggest that I do this or that (for my "writing") I would respond the same.
Who is this person, capable of a committed marriage, raising a child, a career - who joined the Catholic church, for Pete's sake - who is so utterly absent to transaction in the world he has cherished longest, which he holds most dear, that of poetry?
I do not have a plan, and whatever logic this makes eludes me. Except to note what I note here, I have no purpose. I gut myself, I exhaust myself, and my intent and desire remain.
Perhaps nothing makes sense that propels sense-making. Perhaps I am not alone in anything I think or feel.