The new chapbook is almost finished, though it has nearly killed me on more than one occasion. I've been drunk on poems and their memories. That with being sick has made for a rough weekend. I broke down more than once. Yesterday I sat in pajamas most of the day watching football (love how the Chargers dominated the Raiders in the fourth; thank you Mr. Tomlinson) and working on the chapbook. I am going to be very proud of it when it is complete. It is now formatted and laid out. Now all I have to do is work on the cover. The little skin that contains the big skin.
It is raining outside. Thunder is hinting in the distance, guttural in a quiet, insisting way. It hasn't rained here in months. The drops are fat insects of water exploding on the plants and concrete. I love that scent of first rain: loamy, almost metallic. If the morning after weeping had a scent, it would be this. The excess nectar from my hummingbird feeder has been washed away, the damned spots are out.
A couple of years ago I was very into neuro-linguistic programming. I've fallen away from the study of it and the practice I had going. Recently I have noticed that the language I use to define myself defines me. I have to work on my own personal emotional syntax, if that makes any sense. Lately I haven't been using the healthiest language in my mind. It all comes back to this psychological detritus I've been hauling around. The buried have come back swaggering into my life with the organizing of my poetry.
On my mind: grain silos, a year ago today, trazodone, Cuba, the oil on the roads, personal mythology, getting my brain back--the good and the ungood.