The field. Plastic grass and a mix of soccer goalposts and lacrosse nets. Walk the campus early morning to breakfast and then to AP institute. Long days sitting in painful desks. Empathy for my own students who sit in way worse desks. Everything revolves around questions 1, 2, and 3 of the AP literature exam. Poetry coming out my ears. That’s a good thing, though. Sharon Olds, Rachel M. Harper, Billy Collins, Keats and Blake, to name a few. Scoring. Calibration. Irony is king here.
Nights on Adams Avenue. Lestat’s Coffee. El Zarape. Normal Heights. So many years living in this town. Feels familiar and yet, not. The new building projects, the shiny retail joints, Ballast Point gone corporate, all changed, changed… you know the rest. A novel at rest. It sits on the desk in the dorm room, edited through. Line by line. Red inserts addressed. Timeframe imposed. Everything makes some sort of sense. Rethink that, some things make some sort of sense. There’s even a plot (loose).
Writing group ideas and possibilities. Gatherings. A weekly hour? Prompts or not? Workshop model or freeform get together? Books not getting read: Amerikanah. Out Stealing Horses. Best of intentions to read both. Not enough time. The rejections have been incessant. Batting a .041 at the moment. Don’t see it changing. Still, must keep plugging away. Far from home, I was reminded of my mother today in some of what I read. Harper’s poem got to me. It’ a good moment when you read a poet you haven’t encountered before.
I think of books and decay and death and skulls and the dust that covers everything. Myopic. I can’t see too far ahead. That’s a blessing sometimes. The work calls. Pages and pages of short fiction await the slash of ink and the crumpled ball. Workouts are missing this week. Back on track this weekend. A few days letting the shoulder and neck muscles renew isn’t a bad idea. Back in the day I would have had plenty of people to call up and get a pint with down here. Better to get some writing done, perhaps.