I need to read more poetry. I want to read more poetry.
There are all of these things that "need doing" or, and, that "need becoming." And I am entirely unsure and this is what grips and wrings my stomach only to hang it limp and damp over one of the many rungs of my lower intestine.
And! We are going West. West! To another place I've never been with, I'm told, weather like you wouldn't believe and people to hate and envy and sneer at just like New York except "well, it's different" as several people have said. And of course it is and isn't. But the air there will carry smells within it I've never smelled before and likewise I will inhale winds that have never plucked an eyelash from the bridge of my nose to carry it to a sea I have never tasted. What salt.
Really I've got to start writing that book proposal but don't know where to begin. Part of me might not even want to do so: it's like I've written a book but the book's not the thing, the introduction, the pitch is the thing, and pitch I must.
Along these lines I am just nervous. Feeling nervous. You know that grind, that wheeze in your stomach, coming up through your throat and making you sneeze and cry (but not because of the sneezing). It's one of those "attitudes" one tries to learn her way out of through metered and pointed attempts at training and restraining her senses or her sensibilities. Which of course is futile to a certain end: complete control. But this is not even what I want. I do not value control in this way, as such. Much more it's breathing and moving to forget. Maybe not to forget: to minimize through dispersal. "To make trivial." Without lying to yourself, of course. Without denying the fact.
I write this now in large part because I've been checking my best friend's weblog obsessively since the end of last month, hoping for more words and words of her own since she'd been posting poems for National Poetry Month. So, she wrote; so, I am.
And really I don't know if I need to go on any further just now. Do I say this every time? Do I end this way always?
Reading the long-form prose-and-poetry of Ronald Johnson has ultimately affected the way sentences form in my brain. Certainly the way they sound as I type.
I need and want to read more poetry.