I am a bit obsessive about the tools of my trade. Maybe more so lately, since I’m in the psychological gap where the two new books are waiting for publication. Like when you dust off your hands and say “Done.’ You want to clean up, get everything in shape, before you move on.
You’ll probably think the following is pathetic:
The first chair I ordered.
One: I wanted a more comfortable chair to work in. When I was younger, I thought a desk and upright chair added to the seriousness of my endeavors. But I no longer want seriousness, as in a “career.” I just want to write stuff. A desk makes me feel like an accountant. So I ordered what I thought would be a comfortable chair, but the seat was too hard for my back. I sold it, ordered another. This one was too small altogether. Sent it back. At last I found one in a furniture store that wasn’t expensive and is comfortable, but has no ottoman. The way I work, I have to prop my feet up and feign nonchalance. I ordered an ottoman, but it was too high. I sent it back and ordered a lower one. Goldilocks comes to mind.
The one I finally decided on.
Two: I sold my laptop stand (It was a pain to adjust) on Marketplace and bought a new one from Amazon, but it was too heavy. So I sent it back and ordered another. This one didn’t bring the computer up to eye level, which is bad for the neck. Sent it back. Have ordered another one. Hope springs eternal. (Don’t fuss at me about using Amazon. I’ve already made my deal with the devil.)
At the moment I’m sitting here, feet propped on a tiny stool, waiting for the ottoman to arrive. My computer is unsteadily resting on a pillow, my neck bent, waiting for the third iteration of a laptop stand.
Three: I just installed One Drive, hoping that my files would be more secure. But now I can’t find them after I save them! They seem to be hiding in some secret fold of the Cloud.
Jerry says I think the objects around me are elements of a poem. I’m always fussing with them, trying to get them into some arrangement that approximates the vision in my head. And you know how visions are—they unreliably shift. I will not tell you, out of embarrassment, how many different throw pillows I’ve tried and rejected lately.
Possibly I’m stirring the pot, waiting to see what new writing project bubbles to the surface. Wondering how many years the bubbling will continue. James Wright lay dying in his hospital bed, arranging the poems for his last book. One doesn’t quit. My 81 year old friend Sydney Lea is writing more than ever. What about all these poems, pouring out of us, destined for eventual obliteration? Well, what about the roses outside my window, blooming like crazy, the blooms all destined for obliteration? That’s the way it is.
Dare I bring up politics? The way it is. Our collective minds are spinning. But we keep on, trying to approximate the vision we have in our heads about how it could be.
I’ve spent hours looking for cover images for my chapbook and for the full-length book. I found the perfect image for “Doctor of the World” from an artist in Germany, Catrin Welz-Stein, a “digital creator,” who takes found images and re-imagines them. I’ve found one I like on another site for “The End of the Clockwork Universe,” but I have to figure how to get permissions. All fun and exciting work.
It's only a little over two weeks before we move to the lake. Somehow this year I’m a bit reluctant. It’s been such a hard winter, so full of health disruptions, I’m appreciating being settled, living an ordinary life. Ordinary is good for me, in general. I think I like it best when the excitement comes from inside myself rather than from outside.