Two weeks ago, I finished a journal that I had been working on for three years. I wrote my favorite poem in that journal - a piece called "California" - something you may never read or hear. I guess I haven't decided yet. I bought a new journal last week, with an image of a painting of the Venice Bridge, handmade in Italy. Every time I buy a journal, I feel relatively guilty about spending $30 on one, but since the last time I did that was three years ago, and since I'm a writer and all, I decided to go for it again.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
I have been waiting for the perfect time or place to start this journal. I figure the Latte Lounge on Main in Oneonta is just that. I picture myself reading this at Hartwick tonight, trying to come up with flowery words worthy of a Robert Frost piece on nature's sweet sun light gleaming from the brick building (Oneonta History Center) catty-corner to my spot on the porch. Then I think, "Calling this table a porch just because it is outside is a stretch, and no matter what kind of verbal filigree I use to pretty up the shine, it's still just a brick building with some light on it." At that moment, they'll know that even though the word's in the name, this "poet" guy just squashed all the potential out of those rectangular red mud clumps all stacked together to guard their past, and he's probably not a poet at all.
Maybe I won't read this, actually.