Today I didn't write at all, after having written two flat-footed awkward poems yesterday. Well, it's only 10 pm, so maybe I'll write something now.

It is raining here and so dark that I have difficulty driving at night. I wonder if I need glasses. I can't see a damn thing in the dark. One poem I wrote was about how darkness improves our ability to see. Maybe not in my case. It will be a relief somewhat when I get rid of the car in July, after Canto Mundo. I really can't drive anymore.

I am still making cards, drawing and trying to write poems. I really like Positively Fourth Street, despite its harsh tone. So much truth to it that it stings, and I'm probably on the other side of it now. If that makes any sense.

Feeling free to be me? Yes, somewhat.

All I have planned for is Canto Mundo and writing more, revising more, reading more. I can't afford AWP and nobody wants me on their panel anyway.

In the end it comes down to the appearance of this thing we call "success." I'm learning that success isn't all it's cracked up to be. It can be like trying to take a drink of water from a fire hose. I like people who flat out state that there's nothing to gain in poetry. Somehow, it's true. I mean in anything really. We are limited in our capabilities and those limitations can create havoc when we try to meet unrealistic goals, but I am thinking there are a lot of realistic goals I can set myself up to achieve, but what is success really? Everyone is your friend when things are going well, but if there's real life difficulties, financial stresses ect. people disappear. The goal is to be like a duck, smooth on top, but paddling frantically beneath the water. Somehow I think poetry is the whole duck. Sometimes the duck is frantically paddling up stream, sometimes he's flying awkwardly downstream, sometimes he's floating gracefully, and sometimes he's just plain shot dead. There was a goose in Denver with an arrow shot clean through his breast, and the news commentator said they couldn't catch him, but he seemed to not be bothered by the arrow. Yeah, right, just an arrow sticking out both ends. It doesn't seem to look too bad. But none the less, goose, duck, bird or any other metaphor, as a poet or as a human being there are times when you get stuck.


Peace.