and so ends another bout
for about a month now i have had bouts of insomnia. i don't know why it's happening. i am not really worried about any one thing, but maybe that's it - i'm mildly worried about everything, so equally though, that i cannot discern that i am even worrying about anything...yesterday was the fifth day without sleep and i started to see strange things on the road - like thinking i was close to a car bumper, when there was no one in front of or behind me. it made awareness bent and loopy...but it was manageable until my mother picked a fight about christmas in the grocery store.
one positive thing from the insomnia, is that i have been writing more. it feels so good to write...in relation to that, there is a piece in POETRY (V.190 No.4) by Naeem Murr called "My Poet". The piece is extremely sarcasticfunny (in that bone dry dry dry style of wit), and perceptively dead on. as i was reading parts of it i kept thinking of people who know me really well who would understand what this writer was talking about and how the Poet (which is always capitalized) is exemplary of many poet's. i have a slight problem with the tone of ownership (i.e. the whole "my" Poet thing), but other than that, it's been good...here are my favorite highlights:
"I live with a poet. [...] But then, I've never understood poetry. You see, I'm a fiction writer. [...] We fiction writers are a different breed from poets - alert, happy, optimistic. [...] Loving my Poet as I do, though, I try hard to understand what a poet is. The first clue lies in the fact that my Poet - every poet - is an insomniac. My own reads or wanders about our apartment for the best part of most nights. [...] a terrible responsibility, he says, devolves upon the poet, that requires her never to be fully awake or asleep: at night, wakeful poets buoy humanity to the surface, to consciousness, preventing our slumbering bulk from sinking too far; during the day, these same poets anchor the madding masses to the depths. The world will end, he once told me, when the final poet awake closes her eyes."
"My Poet actually did start to get the signal this morning, and spent almost six hours scribbling in her notebook. The result: ten lines on a single page. This page is now impaled upon her corkboard, trapped in a terrible limbo with her other poems-in-progress, some of them years old and countless drafts thick."
i wonder how many partners-of-poets there are out there, writing fiction or not, that might feel the same way...
off to work, and the grocers and birthday festivities.
and it just started snowing. awesome. and i was just called eeyore. haha. :)
one positive thing from the insomnia, is that i have been writing more. it feels so good to write...in relation to that, there is a piece in POETRY (V.190 No.4) by Naeem Murr called "My Poet". The piece is extremely sarcasticfunny (in that bone dry dry dry style of wit), and perceptively dead on. as i was reading parts of it i kept thinking of people who know me really well who would understand what this writer was talking about and how the Poet (which is always capitalized) is exemplary of many poet's. i have a slight problem with the tone of ownership (i.e. the whole "my" Poet thing), but other than that, it's been good...here are my favorite highlights:
"I live with a poet. [...] But then, I've never understood poetry. You see, I'm a fiction writer. [...] We fiction writers are a different breed from poets - alert, happy, optimistic. [...] Loving my Poet as I do, though, I try hard to understand what a poet is. The first clue lies in the fact that my Poet - every poet - is an insomniac. My own reads or wanders about our apartment for the best part of most nights. [...] a terrible responsibility, he says, devolves upon the poet, that requires her never to be fully awake or asleep: at night, wakeful poets buoy humanity to the surface, to consciousness, preventing our slumbering bulk from sinking too far; during the day, these same poets anchor the madding masses to the depths. The world will end, he once told me, when the final poet awake closes her eyes."
"My Poet actually did start to get the signal this morning, and spent almost six hours scribbling in her notebook. The result: ten lines on a single page. This page is now impaled upon her corkboard, trapped in a terrible limbo with her other poems-in-progress, some of them years old and countless drafts thick."
i wonder how many partners-of-poets there are out there, writing fiction or not, that might feel the same way...
off to work, and the grocers and birthday festivities.
and it just started snowing. awesome. and i was just called eeyore. haha. :)