I wonder if I can put into words what it is like for me to have this blog and not be using it. I've always said that for me, writing is breathing; that finding poetry in the written word and everything else around me is inherent to my being. Not having the time to indulge that for so many months now sometimes catches up to me. I find myself pining for the free time in which to sort out my thoughts and then capture them—like long ago on summer nights I caught fire flies and then enclosed them, for a time, in a glass jar with holes poked in the lid and a punched-tin cylinder made in art class encircling it; and through the star-shaped punctures of this structure (this piece of paper, this computer screen, this bit of poetics) the flickers of the bug's radiance flashed.
Sometimes when my emotions get stirred up, I find myself pining for the shaping of thoughts into paragraphs, the reification of what flickers inside me. I don't, lately, have time for it, but I have discovered a short-cut. The wonderful thing about writing is that you've made a recording; so on a day like today, when I am running out of steam for working, getting derailed by life-thinking, I remind myself that I can at least revisit the past postings. And in one of them today I have found something uplifting. I have found my own resiliency, and I have reconjured it within me. Know thy self, I read from my own words of more than a year ago, and I can't help but start smiling. Know thy self, I read, and the pot begins again to steep. Life can bring on its uncertainties, its frustrations, its repetitions of annoyances; I will take them. I can take them. I love taking them. They are the ridges and bumps that give my world texture.
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