Adrift
It has been difficult to write, if you can't half tell. I've succumbed to distractions, to thoughts, to people, to being distracted by people and to thinking about people. I think I have been reading more, but my tally of unread books has not been shortened by much. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I keep increasing it ...
I have images in my head. Thousands, flying by the minute, but little desire to truly capture them and distill words from them. Do you distill words from something, or do you distill something to words?
I was sick again today. I've been sick much too often this year - I don't think I've been ill this often at any other period in my life. I slept - the kind of sleep whereby the only evidence you had of sleeping was because you woke - wandering half lost in the land of dreams. Someone else's dreams, because they did not feel like mine.
Things are changing a little. A lot. Does it matter? Things are changing. Allow me to be cryptic - I feel like drifting and I feel as if my words should drift, if only so that you can drift with me.
I received an email from the people who want to published my poem, that no, it's not the end of the world, it's not too late, send us the Artist's Proof. Which I have done. So I might just be a published poet. How does it feel? I don't know. I don't think I would feel anything until I see it in print.
The door to the verandah from my room is open, to let in any cool slices of air which might whip themselves in through the tiny gaps of the flyscreen. It's been a warm day. I felt like a potato being roasted.
The door to the outside world from my mind is open, to let in any sharp slices of thought which might whip themselves in through the tiny pores of my skin. It's been a day of rest. I feel like a rock in the sand, stuck firmly on soft ground, not going anywhere anytime soon.
I have images in my head. Voices, good or evil. They seem to all squeeze in with the urge to speak poetry. I look at their faces - you, you are a gentle breeze. You have the pride and force of a lion. You are sparkling rain, a shower of fireworks, you have immense power yet untapped.
It has been difficult to write, if you can't half tell.
Things are changing a little. A lot. Does it matter? Things are changing. Allow me to be cryptic. I feel like drifting and I feel as if my words should drift. If only so that you can drift with me.
18 March 2002, Monday, 8:13 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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