Morning is here with the chill of fans cooling the house down for the later day heat. I am wanting to write again. We try too hard to write well sometimes. "Lower your standards," we tell students, but here I am this morning unhappy with the poem/draft I've written, but the point is that it is written. Yet with a few revisions I am coming to like it/them more. I've written another. And another. Three poems this morning and it feels good.

Why am I writing this? I don't know. I'm tired of projections, tired of mirrors or more so a house of mirrors. I receive disconcerting messages about what I write here sometimes. And yes, there's something perfect about the solitude of early morning writing, although all these fans keep making my coffee cold, but P has his interest in keeping the place cool this afternoon.

I am wanting to post the things I've written here, but lines have been lifted, unconsciously, coincidentally possibly, so I've decided to greedily horde my lines good, bad, or indifferently dull here on my computer which keeps dying and dying, so thank god for google documents. I am going to get them ready to send to journals, all of them. There's a number about abuse and PTSD, a number about mental illness, and others about magic, children and wild uncertainties.

I go to work at 2p.m., so I need to get to the cc and pick up a gift which a student left for me. Better late than never.

It will be a good day. I sense it.

Cheers.