(You Can Skip This Part Entirely. I get up early and usually break fast with brunch. There’s no meat in this course. There’s a beer-batter fillet o’ trout on the next plate.)
I’m not going to write about writing; unless it gets us back to writing the good stuff. And I won’t write about not writing because that sounds too much like whining when I do it. But dammit, seriously, the phone won’t stop ringing and the door just will not stay shut. I don’t know how you do it. There’s no peace and quiet to be had. How do you hold a moment’s scrap of peace for even half a moment and breathe? There were 366 days last year, I doublechecked, and even with the extra day I was only able to steal back two-and-one-half’s worth of my own days from the extortionists to do a little quiet thinking. Heaven forbid. I must be crazy thinking without a screen in or on my hand. Not whining. Just saying. That’s only one good quality day of writing plus a couple good nights. That’s it. I wrote most every day and/or night, as usual, I can’t help myself, I’m trying, but last year I swear it was all in three- to nine-minute shotgun bursts. I worked hard to adjust, to accommodate, trying to mesh with such an invasive schedule that seems to be the norm out there. I’m an optimist, I can’t help myself, I’m trying, and yet almost everywhere I look I see communication failing. It’s not healthy; and learning to cope is pretending that it is. That’s not healthy either. The semicolon was a tough assignment; but only in the so-called real world; not in reality. I have to figure out how this thing works. The maintenance schedule requires I stay out of touch. For my health. In reality high-performance really isn’t that finicky. The right fuels help. No I don’t want to be the center of anything. I like edges and margins and wallpaper. I don’t want anything to revolve around me. I don’t like when that happens, it’s dizzying. I just want to orbit in a clear trajectory without bumping anyone else’s satellites off course. If I sound like I’m making fun of something I shouldn’t be it’s because I’m poking fun at myself. I say this before first coffee…and I should shut up and go shave, desperately need a shave. I know better. But don’t worry, the sabre ends & foil tips are all rounded off & the blades are for training purposes only.
This is no poem
This is a bunch of broken lines from stories I don’t want to write any more
That’s not true. That’s not right.
This is why I’m writing tonight.
The honesty gauge is alive and kicking when I put ink to paper.
This is no poem
This is a bunch of lines from broken stories that require some fixing and I want to fix them.
This is no poem
This is a rope with a note tied to the end
That reads Please Help
Musie doesn’t usually say Please
So I must’ve wrote it
Musie & I are summoned
by the one who makes this all work
One of our own is in trouble. Drowning
Drowning again
Our Amani’ is hosting
A party
What feels to me like an unsentencing
An undoing
A summons from a queen could be
A beheading
Could be amusing
There’s always hope
The queen said my tour of duty is up
When though is now? I’m not sure whose calendar we’re using.
Amani’s got the most room and is the best cook
She’s the hostess with a most agreeable venue
Though we’d go anywhere if one’s been forsook
This is no poem.
This is no rope.
This is a hose
This is a fire extinguisher
And we’re rushing into the fire
This is us backing down fires with fire and keeping notes. Again my phone is ringing off the hook. This is me serving time for attempted poetry, this is me serving time in the Covenhenge Library.
Detention? Again? Already? I haven’t even had lunch.
[Scribe, telegraph this: Dispatch From Detention: Dear Santa, Have the Elves hold all calls—STOP— Tomorrow call a shiny, long car for Mrs. Claus—STOP—We have been summoned to a klatch at Amani’s place—STOP— P.S.- Tell her Amani’ made her favourite Yuletide recipe. And there will be cookies for you, courtesy of Lilly—STOP—]
Lilly, Amani’, Musie, Mrs. Claus, All, Old Guard at the volunteer fire house and there have been a lot of fires sparking up. This sounds like a tea party or a gathering of the card-carrying heart of The Breakfast Club, Lifeguards, Grandma, ropes & lifeboats inbound. This feels like a dispelling. Winter break. A sleigh ride. Calendar, calendar on The Fool’s wall, who’s the cruelest month of them all? How do you smile whilst juggling? I like biting my lip, concentration is a necessity without the duct tape (to hold all the balls together). It’s not an invitation, Musie said. We’ve been summoned, not asked. Oh, and yes, there will be tea and cake!