Where You’ll Find Me

Where You’ll Find Me

if you should need me

I can always be found

in the lower-left hand

            corner

wrapped up in a warm

blanket

            watching the sun

rise in sequence with my

ideas about Heaven

***

I have writer’s block. I have it even though I am armed with an idea and the character. Perhaps if I get the opening line I may be able dive in. I did manage to press out a poem or a reasonably hand-drawn facsimile.

In propinquity,

Nic

Caught In The Act

I tried desperately to squeeze some joy out of my mid-week holiday this week. Canada Day came, the sun poured through the windows with the promise of hours of enjoyment ahead. I struggled, the second my feet hit the floor, to ‘get with it’ for lack of a better phrase. Not wanting to waste a perfectly gorgeous day, I forced myself outside into the throngs of people and strollers and wheelchairs up and down the Halifax waterfront. Big mistake. Doing this activity alone and aimless: no plan, no comrades, no sense of direction; bad idea. I was already in a dark frame of mind, weighed down by the pressures and anxieties currently plaguing my days. I should have stayed home. That became evident when the sun gave way to the dark menacing clouds and it started to pour. I was on Barrington Street in short sleeves, no umbrella, minimal cover and solo.

My only goal in the weeks leading up to my country’s birth was to head down to the free show at Alderney Landing to catch the Glorious Sons from Kingston, ON. I’d seen them open for Airbourne at The Marquee and I fell in love with their particular brand of rock ‘n’ roll. When I set out across to Halifax, the idea was to eventually end up back at Alderney Landing in time for their set. But I got drenched en route to Dartmouth so I just kept on going until I was home in my comfies curled up with my eyes closed, agitated beyond comprehension. The only bright spot of the whole journey was a wee visit with Hannah.

Checking the clock and in with a friend, I opted to force myself back up, change into something warmer and go do what I wanted to do for weeks: see Glorious Sons. Timing was perfect, I arrived at the grounds just as they started their set.

A strange thing occurred to me as I watched them rock and then roll. I was standing in a crowd of thousands of people and had never felt lonelier. A profound sadness washed over me and it was all I could do to keep the tears in.  

But then, there was that kick drum … that fortuitous power filled up my being with authority.

Music does save. It did me in that exact moment.

I went to bed less filled with the dread of the day and more with the hope of making my tomorrow better. I can sometimes get very low but then my inner-optimist wakes up and slaps my feelings silly, reminds me I can do better, be better and kinder to myself. With struggle comes progress, right?

So, in addition to being brought back into the light but a rousing dose of rock, I also started reading a sweet little book: ‘Hector & The Search for Happiness. It is teeny tiny trade-paperback written by Francois Lelord, simply written yet insightful. It’s a wonderful little parable about modern life, about happiness and unhappiness. If you’re looking for a quick read with heart and lessons learned, pick it up. It is just what I needed. I found my copy under a pile of writing folders. I forgot all about it but it was like I was meant to forget so I could find it now when I was most in need of the directives.

Today is Friday. I missed the OHF gathering last night and I have this poem in the current issue. I really could use a gathering to get up and share some writing – better yet, I could really use a decent spurt of energy to create something worth sharing!

**

Caught In The Act

a singular vehemence instigated

a triumphant return to buoyancy

the near absence of preeminence

enacts an aesthetic  to serve admirably

the idiosyncratic ringing of the bells

bewitched an unleavened expression

to recite lengthy open-hearted verses

a rising narrative of subtle nuances

on the poetic condition

caught in the act of rhythmic climax

a surreal phrase

on a brisk winter morning

**

Happy weekend, friendly readers and loves.

Be happy.

Be free.

Be safe.

In propinquity,

Nic

Barclay’s Hands Flat on the Table

Barclay’s Hands Flat on the Table

formally subdued by the selfish pleasures of lazy consonants

Barclay surrenders with his hands flat on the table experiences

a crisis of imagination

the perennial detour

it is a failed attempt at an exercise in trusting the sacred duty

locating specific coordinates of semantic tangles on a steno pad

it is one thing to live in  modest house aside hostile mountains of hope

it is quite another to faithfully render yourself helpless to bleak subjects

at a creative intersection

it is a state of grace

to covet the badly drawn anxieties of abandoned light and lost possessions

to comprehend the concise expression of last embraces of fruitful characters

Barclay’s hands flat on the table

the uncertainty wrings and twists in his heart

one last sentence dancing in flames he cannot touch

cracks through his knuckles

poetic parlance politically incorrect

a contrarian view the hour of the lamb

Barclay yields with his hands flat on the table

head hung mouth dry soul empty tongue tied

writing carried to the extreme

woeful for last words to come

ill served consumed relentless

Barclay’s hands flat on the table

while he waits for words to reanimate        

**

I want so desperately to write. But, I feel a weight. A heavy weight pressing down on me, feels like it’s stopping my heart. I can’t identify the source. Sadness maybe? Depression? Loneliness?  There are so many great ideas rattling around in my noodle but I can’t seem to get them on the page. I see the stories, hear the voices, long to write but I just can’t get it out of me. I start/stop, get excited then become complacent. I read books, watch films, I daydream but I can’t seem to settle any of that dust on the page. It hurt. Physically, spiritually and emotionally. How can I call myself a writer if I can’t maintain a healthy flow of work? Are you a writer if you’re not writing? I manage poems. Small snapshots but I want meaty stories, character development, dialogue, plot and the apex. I live for writing yet I cannot summon up enough courage to be inspired by anything. Except that I cannot write. It’s a boring complaint, dull, whiny even. Worse when all I can write about is not being able to write – hence Barclay’s poem.

I’m in a rut. It’s a long-lasting one. Scary. Unhealthy. Damaging. Soul-crushing.

Help.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sharp Tender Shock

I am desperate to write. My story outline sits stagnant, waiting for me to pay attention, the characters are off to the side, and their are arms folded impatiently waiting for me to get my poop in a group.  I am still stifled by the 9 to 5 but maybe now I’m using that as an excuse because my lofty procrastination has turned into another painful bout of writer’s block.  It is entirely my fault for not writing.  I should be writing.  And trust me, I am trying.

The good news is, I am reading a lot and taking in live music shows to keep me breathing.  I did manage to get a lovely weekend away from the grind but I maintain I still require a retreat.  Absolute solitude, no technology, no distractions.  If I didn't require a steady paycheck I’d be gone in a heartbeat.

I just want to be artful. 

And, in the spirit of wanting to be artful on the last day of the long weekend and since I didn't post a single thing in the month of August, I set a goal for myself to write a poem today.  

This was the result:

 Sharp Tender Shock

You, in the brazen sun

a concept easily quoted

a sharp critical engagement

an event among philosophers.

You, fixed in a delicious swirl

throwing a tender muted gaze

speaking an intoxicating language

an unprecedented artful arrangement.

You, safe in the comforts of metaphor

a stimulating shock of necessary illusion

a threshold to the fall of cinnamon rain

a font of deeply decorous translations.

I invited you to the end of this poem

to reference the sharp tender shock I am

in from the tenacity of your turgid heart

where I am permitted to mention a thing

so vulgar as love.

**

Phew.  It's icky but it is writing, right?  Right.

You'd think that after watching Dwight Twilley's soundcheck yesterday, getting a hug from Garland Jeffreys and sitting in on a songwriter's workshop by Brian Potvin (Northern Pikes) and David Pirner (Soul Asylum) I'd have more to say.  But in all honesty, I'm still in awe of my day. of those artists.  I did soak up some mojo though.  Maybe this week I will set small attainable goals for writing.  Even a page an evening.  I think I can handle that.  Maybe I need to revisit the concept of writing prompts again.  Ugh.

In propinquity, 

Nic

Trip The Light Fantastic

Trip The Light Fantastic

The sole metaphor is enveloped in childish delights.  A reversal of fortunes configured this reverie where I could not deny loyalty to amend my stumbles, straighten out my aloof posture under lingering clouds; I was reminded of refrains, twirling, and merriment.  My counterfeit heart accepted a half suggestive smile from a stranger, a warm hand and an invitation to trip the light fantastic.  Together we danced, nimbly and light through the emissions of alchemy’s one hundred brilliant colours, just to enjoy a moment simply for what it is.  We did this, coupled, just long enough for it to be enchanting to tell a tale of how glorious it is to shed sadness, breathe without thought, and revel in the ease of being.

Trip the light fantastic. 

 **

A writing exercise.  I had to choose from a small list of phrases, this one stuck out.  It also firmly planted 'A Whiter Shade of Pale' the classic earworm by Procol Harum in my noodle. Not the worst thing in the world by any means.

I am not highly motivated today.  I am tired and lethargic and can't decide whether I want to nap, walk or wrestle with my decisions.  It's one of those days where I just don't know what I want nor do I even know what to do with myself.  I am happy I managed to write a few words but I am empty above the neck in terms of inspiration, or maybe that's my heart?  Either way, I am feeling hollow in the creative regions of my being.  I dislike the feeling.  I long for that overwhelming burst of fever that comes with the flood of feel good-ness from being consumed by the Muse.  I'm wide open and waiting.

Happy Sunday.  ECMA broadcast tonight then it's back to the daily grind tomorrow.  Blech.  Could my lotto win be close?  *crosses fingers*

In propinquity,

Nic

I Have Been Her

I Have Been Her

I have been her

the belletrist

the poet

the raconteur

walking in kicked up dust

hiding behind dappled masks

truncated by crippling fear

I have been her

lithe and elegant

superbly refined

minor in substance & scope

the chronicler

the storyteller

the nonconformist

I have been her

occupied by aesthetics

operating under the old guise

no intricacy is too exclusive

the graceful danseur

the faithful maiden

the prosperous parallel

I have been her

the permanence of spilt ink

pilfered in such pretty ways

crying loud in a lonesome wail

unlikely parts for a perpetual dreamer

I have been her

**

I have not been able to write a word in days.  Blank pages and blinking cursors have been thwarting me, taunting me but tonight, even after a frustrating Monday at my 9 to 5, I was able to bang out a little poem.  I was so tired when I got home, too beat to cook so I ordered pizza, too bleary to watch TV so I listened to two great installments of 'Play It Forward' - the first with Adam Baldwin and the second with Evan Meisner from Gloryhound.  Listening to both of those guys wax poetic and talk honestly about their craft sparked a little something in me.  I haven't moved from the kitchen table since I got home.  I listened, ate, drank and then broke out the poetics.  Even though my noodle is completely wasted on numbers, I was grateful to tap into my creativity even for only one poem.  I needed words today, desperately.

Oh, I saw 'Wolf Of Wall Street' yesterday.  The lure of course being the Leo factor.  It was bum-numbing long but I did see his bum and Jonah Hill's teeth made me laugh.  What a story.  Excess, greed and gluttony - whatever you want to call it, that guy was a grabber.  Leo's performance was stunning but in the end even his talents didn't make my empathy swell for a scoundrel.  Was it supposed to?  Maybe I was just grumpy from all of this horrid winter weather hanging around.  I'm really looking forward to seeing '12 Years A Slave'.  I am behind on my Oscar fodder.  Terrible film fan I am. 

Take a peek at this incredible song by a most excellent Dartmouth boy, doing the East Coast proud.

You can download is six song EP on iTunes now.  It's worth it and there are some excellent rock songs you can dance to.  Fast and slow.  His songs belong in your ears.

In propinquity,

Nic

Murmur

Murmur

unreliable whispers

in sturdy iambic pentameter

potent demonstrations

detailing the art of concision

erratic circumspection

around the mechanics of desire

intoxicating philanderer’s

account of foolish gallantry

intermittent sentience

verses articulated amid bedmates

to count the quickened beats

of stridently tolling hearts

in adversity, murmur

in question, clamour

hushed breath

                blatant curiosity

master rhymer

                of old-fashioned quatrains

murmur

**

In the middle of my writer's block came this poem.  I'm still staring at 'Burden'.  I feel close to tears because so much of it is in my head playing like slow moving pictures but I can't get it down on the page.  I'm creatively constipated.  It's uncomfortable.  

Sad about Lou Reed.  Sad that it's Monday and that it's almost November.  Winter is coming.  I'll have to start wearing socks.  Blerg.

In propinquity,

Nic

From the Desk of a Blocked Writer

Uh oh.

I had the best of intentions to write after work last night.  I wanted to write.  I arrived home, ate a quick meal of Sunday leftovers, curry and naan bread, threw on my jammies with fuzzy slippers and fired up the computer.  I plunked my notes and the pages of ‘Burden’ on my desk to continue on.  In all of that aspiration, I spent a full hour gazing at a blank screen, mocked by the slow blinking cursor.  Admittedly, ‘Burden’ is a slow moving train and I’m really still listening to the sisters for the crux of the story, of why they appointed me to tell it.  Certainly there is a purpose, as with every story, the characters want and/or need something.  

I am six pages into their lives.  It wavers back and forth between the present and the past to highlight the behaviours and believes of each woman.  I think.  I hope.  Honestly, I am having a bit of trouble tapping into Judy’s personality because at first she’s such an asshole for lack of a better word.  It’s hard for me to write her meanness, her lack of humanity and her coldness.  I accept the challenge of course and understand it comes from somewhere but I’m still waiting to hear.  As for Helen, she’s endured a lot growing up alongside Judy and so she’s coming from a completely different perspective.  I feel myself on her side and I need to straighten out and be objective and be fair to my characters.  Not favor one over the other and I feel like Helen is soaking up my empathy at a rapid pace and I’m saving my disdain for Judy. 

Maybe this is why I hit a brick wall last night.  I tried to work out the block, determining whether or not it was just because I was tired from a long haul at the day job, or if my desk is too cluttered, or maybe it’s just my noodle is messy.  Whatever it is that caused me to fall flat on my face, hindered my creativity for a whole night.  I worry it will spill into today too.  I’ve been writing steady for a long time and it was actually painful to be mute, to be without one single thought or flash or note scribbled.  I tried music and pacing, I tried reading my pages aloud, and nothing.  Finally I closed up shop, watched a bit of TV and allowed myself to breathe.  I glanced once more at the pages when I crawled in bed but I didn’t want to jinx myself, get a sudden burst of thoughts and disrupt the night’s sleep I desperately needed.  So, I tucked into Elspeth’s book, her self-published gem, ‘Sole’.  I am grateful to her vivid characters for making me forget my writer’s ache and entertaining me to the point that even when my eyes were heavy and close to sleep I was still squinting to read.

I don’t expect a lot to happen writing wise today but I think I’ll continue to fill the well and see what happens.  I have Zumba after work so perhaps the hip shaking exercise will loosen some of the resistance.  Tomorrow evening I am attending the book launch for ‘Fallsy Downsies’ by Stephanie Domet at The Carleton.  I finished it yesterday on my commute home.  I savored the pages to extend my time in the story because I loved it so much.  If you’re looking for a good read, buy the book and meet Lansing Meadows, follow his tour.  I am hoping the launch and reading will further inspire me and help me get back on track with ‘Burden’.  Right now, I feel like it’s a big old mess.  But, I’ve been here before and I’ve come out the other side in one piece, overcoming obstacles and achieving some sort of success in the name of finishing something. 

I hope my uh oh turns into a yee haw soon.

In propinquity,

Nic

More Ideas Than Time

You know that saying, 'when it rains it pours'?  It applies to my current creative situation.  I've mentioned before that half way through writing 'Large-Hearted' came to a sudden stop.  Then, while fretting over looming writer's block, I culled a new story idea from a dream I had.  Afraid to write it out though.  It's heavy and it scares me.  The visuals are frightening.  All the more reason to commit to paper, right?  May be small potatoes to some who will read it but to me, because of the subject matter and setting, it's bone-chilling.  And THEN, while falling asleep the other night I met a NEW character who spoke up, wanting her story to be told.  I went from being barren to bonkers, zero to sixty, no time flat.  I mean yikes!  Help me, Rhonda!

Long week this week.  I had to come home today and throw on my sneakers, grab my music and go for a long sweaty walk to blow off some steam, just to be quiet, just to breathe.  It served me well.  I arrived back to my door calmer, with a bottle of wine in hand and my gratitude for the weekend fully intact.  My kitty is curled up at my feet, Gord Downie is crooning it's been a long time running from my speakers, I have a glass of wine and the window open watching the sun set behind the clouds.  I hope to write a little bit but it's weird because I keep waffling back and forth between them, writing bits and bobs on each one.  I'm certain I'll loose my marbles.  You wait and see.  I did spend some time yesterday reading essays by Ray Bradbury about the creative process.  That also doesn't help because I want everything to be written  YESTERDAY.  I swear, I need a writer's retreat.  A month in a small cottage with a computer, a cellar full of wine, cupboard full of tea and a bowl full of fresh fruit.  Add a deep bathtub, a cozy bed and a necessary but modest library of books, writing essentials and music and I would write you the world.  My dreams are lofty but isn't that what dreams are supposed to be?  I think so.

Happy weekend!  Be happy.  Be good.  To yourself.  To others.

In propinquity,

Nic

Fill Your Paper

I've got no poetry today.  I'm working on a few little things but they are still seedlings and as far as prose is concerned, I'm at a standstill with 'Large-Hearted' as well as brainstorming other new pieces.  It's ok for now though, I was thinking since I'm feeling strained, it was time to crack the books.  By that I mean read a bit.  I was mulling over choices for my next purchase when suddenly I receive a large envelope in the mail, Ruthie's latest short story!  Perfect timing me thinks.  It's fantastic and so I rushed home today to put pen to paper and wrote all of my thoughts and gushy feelings to her.  I was so excited that it's already in the mailbox waiting to be picked up!  

What else this week, oh, Alice Munro is retiring.  Bummer.

Also, if you could, keep my best friend's mom in your prayers.  She started her first round of chemo this week.  Sweet June deserves all the love and positive energy you can muster.  

Oh, I keep threatening myself to a Haiku challenge.  I can't write them for beans.  Maybe while I'm brainstorming, jotting and praying I'll work on the little beasts.

Short and sweet today, like me.

And before I forget, Sheree Fitch released a non-fiction piece on Fierce Ink Press today.  She is worth reading and supporting.  Check it out.  There is a Kindle Edition and an EPUB.  It's an important piece and some of the proceeds are going to a good cause.  

In propinquity,

Nic

PS - Isn't the above Wordsworth quote marvelous?

Knots

Knots

the length of a nautical mile

is identical to a minute of latitude

in uncharted waters

loops and kinks weaken strapping cord

old worn rope damaged by sunlight

at the bottom of the mountain

sore strained grieving muscles

latent trigger points overwrought

below aching flesh

the beautiful code of a versatile metaphor

interlaced with the mysteries of love

that beat in a heart

found loneliness precipitates ever-long

bare hands reach up for a speculative lift

to scale toward the Heavens

Northeast-bound bow heaving toward an address

stern slick and graceful for long uninterrupted hours

fully rigged sailing vessel asea

arms outstretched for the concluding embrace

the absence of substance pressing into bones

for remnants of human attachment

knots

troublesome

intricate arrangement of tender places

sudden intervention of constructive trust

knots

            they bind

they blind

**

So, here's the skinny.  I came home the last two nights determined to battle the block I'm currently experiencing.  The first night I read a bit of Carol Shields and Alice Munro while listening to Matt Epp and Diana Krall.  I then scribbled.  Last night I went for a walk on Rainbow Haven beach with my friend Donna to try and clear out the cobwebs.  I got the pant legs of my yoga pants wet because I couldn't outrun a wimpy wave.  It felt good.  Scribbled a little more. Tonight, I came home through this sudden humid heat-wave the east coast of Canada is experiencing ate gross hotdogs because it was too hot too cook much else and watched 'Tragically Hip in Bobcaygeon'.  Got goosebumps and maybe cried a little.  While trying to stay hydrated I pieced together the scribbles and came up with this poem.  Good, right?!

Get this.  While I still haven't managed to seep back into 'Large-Hearted' mode, I actually walked into TWO more story ideas.  What the french toast!?  One of the ideas scares me a little bit so I'm not sure how that one is going to go.  It stems from a dream I had not long ago.  The majority of my dreams of late have been twisted like pretzels.  I haven't been sleeping very well and so when I am sleeping I'm conjuring up all this insane garbage including revisiting an ex to discover he murdered someone and made art out of his victim's bones and this insane doctor injecting my niece with poison.  I'd be afraid to have them analyzed.  I mean geez.  The other one, which shocked me out of my sleep is going to be hard to write.  I don't know when I'll get to it but it'll come.  And, the other idea is light and fuzzy so fear not.

I'm melting so I must go re-fill my icewater and sit in front of a fan to stay cool until I go to bed to toss and turn.  Silver lining?  Tomorrow is Friday!  Yay!

In propinquity,

Nic

Affliction

It happened.  I caught it.  Writer’s block.  It hurts.  Make it stop.

Not a good way to start the month of July.  I’m half way through a new story and came to a sudden stop.  Now, it appears I have to endure some of those obligatory exercises to exorcise my block.  I knew the creative stream, would slow down to a mere trickle but I didn’t anticipate the agony.  It’s as if my whole noggin is empty!  I am desperate to tap back into my character’s life.  Her story.

Pray for me.

In propinquity,

Nic

Unfinished Woman

Unfinished Woman

I am

by definition

an unfinished woman

a fragmented heart

an uneven dilemma

follow here

the perilous route

of a prosy poetess

defined only by work

on a theory of love

& when I perish

when the earth moves

they will discover my

bones embedded deep

within the rocky below

bones in the shape

of curious decrees

sentences stretching

for long distances

dispatching big words

transmitting veracities

indecipherable to the

average naked eye

I am

by definition

an unfinished woman

a tortured daughter

an uncompromised lover

follow here

my resolute advice

my unrivaled practice

write your failures brilliantly

**

So yesterday I worried I was facing writer’s block.  As soon as I completed my blog and shared it, I wrote a small chunk of dialogue for ‘Mute’.  Maybe saying it out loud helps?  I was grateful for the tiny flash and to have a small conversation set up the next stage of the story.  I also learned a few new things about my current characters I didn’t know before, that was exciting.  I employed the correct grammar too so let’s hope I make the grade.

I wrote the above poem yesterday.  It made me cry as I scribbled.  It came from a deep corner of my heart from the places I am most pure, about the pieces of me that so few know or who couldn’t be bothered to see.    

I’m still out of sorts today but it could be the gloomy fog and rain outside and the fact that so many of my people are in current states of disarray and I worry about them.  My wishes for them are peaceful breathing and optimal outcomes. 

Is it Friday yet?

Wild wild horses, we’ll ride them someday …

In propinquity,

Nic

Tacenda

Tacenda

leave it to stillness

intentions unspoken

implications hushed

tacit

words better left unsaid

matters to be passed over

in silence

deafening silence

             inferred

            deferred

permit quietude

solemn gestures

oblique

matters not to be mentioned

emotions unable to breathe

stifled

sated

your truth

my truth

the whole truth

& nothing but

left to nothingness

purpose undeclared

words left to the wind

tacit

you and me

me and you

silent

broken

**

It may have happened; writer’s block may have set in. Just a little bit.  I suppose it was bound to happen after such a fruitful stream of creative writing.  When I started writing this current story, I slammed into a wall it seems but I’m hoping it’s just quick creative cat nap instead of an actual block.  I know the whole story now, I just haven’t been able to get it down on paper.  My noodle feels cluttered full of junk and work and worldly concerns.  Perhaps another news hiatus might be healthy.  With all of the goings on in Boston and the foiled terror attack here on Canadian soil, my thoughts before sleep aren’t of imagined characters and their colorful stories, they are deeply rooted in reality.  I need to find the way back to that creative space and turn ‘Mute’ into a full story instead of bare bones writing.  I am still scribbling notes but notes can only take me so far.  I need writing time, alone time with these people to do their story justice.  I also vow to stop bucking the rigid rules of grammar with my stubbornness and write the dialogue properly despite my intense hatred for that one little rule of the comma.  It is a rule I cannot escape if I ever have any hope of publishing one day.  Delighted though that Ruthie was the only person to ever notice it – just for her and for the sake of being correct, I will write with better rules and respect for them. 

I did manage to squeeze out a poem that I transferred from my writing book (which I spent several hours tinkering with over the weekend) to my Teapot.  Sometimes when I’m drained of inspiration, a few hours in those pages can really help.

Sidenote: it’s only Tuesday.  I’m going to try hard to quell my crank.  Try being the operative word.  An equal combination of idiots and outside static are grating on my last nerve but I will press on.  And smile.  It’s what I do.  The only way to battle hypocrisy and the grand double standard is to kill 'em with kindness.  

Who’s gonna ride your wild horses?

In propinquity,

Nic

If You Run Out Of Paper

I cannot for the life of me get my current prose piece on the go.  I have been editing, adding and deleting, re-arranging but nothing else will come, except for the small piece I've written.  It pains me because I really like the two new characters but something is holding me back, preventing me from telling their story.  I thought I might get to spend some quality time with them on Sunday when I was home alone but once I tinkered with my Christmas tree and a poem, finished a pile of neglected laundry and tidied up, I ran out of steam and out of time.  I'm leaving it up to inspiration now.  I can't have writers block because I've been writing poems like a maniac.  Maybe I was just too please with myself after 'Whistle' and rushed into another idea before it fully formulated.  I rushed into a good thing head first.  No good ever comes of rushing.  I do hope something sparks soon, I really want to share my nwe characters with you.

I polished this puppy off today.  Fussed with it and it's ripe and ready to be sampled:

If You Run Out Of Paper 

if you run out of paper

in the genuine pursuit of truth to

rediscover the beauty of the past

do not despair

it is widely accepted and understood

we often overlook imagined examples

of clarity & brevity for curiosity & inspiration

& how far we can stretch our arms open

to muscle through a path of creative content

if you run out of paper

be at least curious about the moment

you will find the instant suits you

do not protest

art is happiness methodically examined

so great an invention you will never have

to worry if your prose will triumph or your

image rich song is better sung in a folksy drawl

if you run out of paper

be sure to listen for the cheerful melody

that invites you to lose touch with your reservations

write on the walls or write on your hands never be

heartbroken to report you missed a word for lack of 

parchment

if you run out of paper

orchestrate a perilous tango of madness

because obstacles are emphatically verboten

if you run out of paper

you have arrived

**

Of course the premise here is that no matter what, never stop creating.  If you run out of ink, use a crayon.  If you break a pencil, use finger paint.  Just keep going.  And really, if you run out of your creative supplies you must be producing one heck of a piece. That's never wrong.

Think it's time to bundle up and carry myself out for a walk.  Throw in my earbuds and move around a little.  I intended to make today the day I return to the gym.  With daylight savings time, when I'm reading on the commute home I often get lost in my book (in this case my Wallace Stevens poetry volume) and I drove right by.  I promised myself exercise today, I need to get back to good healthy living.  This sitting down and working all day is for the birds, it may be great for writing time which I'd never complain about but my rump is suffering.  I must move.

Happy evening, friendly readers.

In propinquity,

Nic