Now here I am at home again, back in the land of weeds and lawn mowing and a shockingly dusty bedroom and incipient grocery shopping and bean picking and chicken-house cleaning, etc., etc., not to mention the editorial volcano belching its summaries and reference lists. Occasionally I reminisce about being a writer. "Once, long, long ago, I wrote a poem." Oh well. I'm writing this letter to you now. And someday it will be January, and I will be alone and lonely, and the poems will creep out of their corners to gnaw at my ankles.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Summer is such an overwhelming season, and this year seems more overwhelming than usual. I have so much editorial work that I wake in the night unromantically asking myself, "Did you really remember to renumber Figure 13.1 as Box 13.2?" or "Braille: capped or lowercase?" During my short trip to North Haven, I intended at the very least to wake up early in the morning and deal with a poetry editing project I'm involved in. It wouldn't have been like real writing, but at least the subject matter would have been congenial. But no. I woke up early and read a Canadian page-turner. Then I ate an overlarge breakfast and looked at the sea for a number of hours. Occasionally I picked up a rock. Before long I was in need of a nap, and the pattern repeated. Just substitute "dinner" for "breakfast." Laziness overcame me like the flu.