I’ve been cleaning. I’ve been on a bit of a tear. I started with wanting to vacuum under the couch. Then I was washing all the dishes, and then I was on hands and knees washing the bathroom floor with a little sponge. I’m a clutter person, though, so the place still looks messy.
I’ve been writing, redrafting a few things, working on a new one. And the story. Grrr. What always happens has happened. I’ve written myself into a place where I can’t figure anything else out. I wish I didn’t have to write such odd stories, but that’s the world I occupy best. I understand folklore, I understand how to link those methods, those plots and images together into something beautiful. I just can’t finish these beautiful little things. I think I have issues with subplots. I get tangled up. I get torn inside out by my main plot. It’s going off the charts, and I no longer know how to write it.
or maybe I’m just being stupid.
If only I could write a simple little boy meets girl and they fall in love story. I don’t do that, though. I write stories that exist in little dream worlds, where twins are born and they fly around the room, where women leap out of bed on their wedding nights and run away, where a girl brings a towns dead back to life by bathing them.
Yesterday, I helped decorate my mother’s house for the holidays. It looks pretty nice, I have to say. I want to put on a dress and go out for a drink. I want to wear my new shoes. I want to want something. That’s why I spend all my money, so there will always be things I want but cannot have. I really needn’t go to all that trouble, though. I want all of your hearts, and I certainly haven’t won all that just yet. If I had I’d be published by now…
When it’s summer in the city
and you’re so long gone from the city
I start to miss you, baby, sometimes (Regina Spektor)
I’ve been reading John Berryman to break out of this oddity. I love Henry. I love that book. Great, great, great poet. Here’s one of his, one-eighty-seven
Them lady poets must not marry, pal.
miss Dickenson – fancy in Amherst bedding her.
Fancy a lark with Sappho,
a tumble in the bushes with miss moore,
a spoon with Emily, while Charlotte glare.
miss Bishop’s too noble-O.
That was the lot, and two of them are here
as yet and- and: Sylvia Plath is not.
She – she her credentials
has handed in, leaving alone two tots
and a widower to what he makes of it –
surviving guy, &
when Tolstoy’s pathetic widow doing her whung
(after them decades of marriage) & kids, she decided he was queer
& loving his agent.
Wherefore he rush off, leaving two journals, & die.
It is a true error to marry with poets
or to be by them.