I digress.

There's so much I want to say, about so many things, and yet, I don't know where to write them. To share, or not to share? Will my thoughts inevitably be shared, either way? Either through fame or death will my journals be published; will the world hear my worries and wonders? I might as well write them here as the internet seems as good'a place as any. No fire can destroy my pages with a single lick, though could a virus do the same trick? Maybe I'm rhyming because I've read a few poems this morning, which is what turned me on to be here...

Rewind. So, I volunteer as a script reader for a regional theater here in the city; yesterday I went in to return the last two [terrible, awful, how could the playwrights be proud!?] scripts I reviewed, and sheesh! What a relief it was to get them off my desk. Seriously bad, and I honestly believe I could do better than at least one of them, the second one had potential but was lacking in plot development and comprehension. Annnnyway, the one was so awful that I wrote, "I wanted to rip my hair out, strand by strand, by the end of the first page. Yeah, it’s another one of those, “Here’s my story on how I failed and succeeded at getting pregnant.” There was no conflict, no drama, no excitement. I didn’t care about any of the characters - they all annoyed me. This “play” may do better as a memoir, or a short story, or saved for the kids’ baby books. It read like a love letter to herself and she didn’t care whether or not anyone would be intrigued by reading, listening or watching it (nor did she even change her character's name from her own). Awful; throw it away and set fire to the trash can." So, that was fun to write a mean review rather than having to sift through all the pages singing praise about everything I loved. But so yeah, I'm talking to the boss man and he asks how my writing's going, and I say, oh, not really... at all, it's mostly just in my head. And it's not just thinking, if that's what you're thinking, it really is composition, only I'm not putting it to paper. I "write" and "re-write" in my head on runs and promise to put it to paper upon my return home, but stretching and other distractions lend to my forgetfulness. I digress. I told him that I hope my move to South Korea will be a blessing in terms of my writing because of the loneliness and isolation I will feel from lack of familiarity will spurn me to churn out page after page of prose and who knows. I digress.

This morning, over honey-drizzled strawberry waffles and soy milk-infused coffee, I read The New Yorker and my, how literary I felt, as still feel. The after effects of that magazine are truly dizzying in the most delicious way (note: I hope to be published in it one day). I read about potential panthers prowling in New Jersey, poems (of course) and a writer named Bruno Schulz, who seemed to have touched the lives of everyone he met with the life he lead and the words he wrote. "He was one of those men on whose head God lays His hand while they are asleep so that they get to know what they don't know, so that they are filled with intuitions and conjectures, while the reflections of distant worlds pass across their closed eyelids" ("Spring" a story by Schulz about Alexander the Great).

"And I always admired him, for the way he would talk and we would see a picture. We could smell the things he described. I remember how, for example, he described the smell of cinnamon, which was dominant in the commercial area of Drohobycz, and I, all my life, never could stand the smell of cinnamon, but only when he described it I loved it..." -- Ze'ev Fleischer, a pupil of Schulz.

Anyway, so I was inspired to sit down and write, digressing along the way, sharing things with you, if I may...

SURVIVORMAN

Here's a fact: Some people want to live more

Than others do. Some can withstand any horror

While others will easily surrender

To thirst, hunger, and extremes of weather.

In Utah, one man carried another

Man on his back like a conjoined brother

And crossed twenty-five miles of desert

To safety. Can you imagine the hurt?

Do you think you could be that good and strong?
Yes, yes, you think, but you're probably wrong.

--Sherman Alexie

CRUSH

Maybe my limbs are made

mostly for decoration,

like the way I feel about

persimmons. You can't

really eat them. Or you

wouldn't want to. If you grab

the soft skin with your fist

it somehow feels funny,

like you've been here

before and uncomfortable,

too, like you'd rather

squish it between your teeth

impatiently, before spitting

the sort parts back up

to linger on the tongue like

burnt sugar or guilt.

For starters, it was all

an accident, you cut

the right branch

and a sort of light

woke up underneath,

and the inedible fruit

grew dark and needy.

Think crucial hanging.

Think crayon orange.

There is one low, leaning

heart-shaped globe left

and dearest, can you

tell, I am trying

to love you less.

--Ada Limon

And so my digressions done, for the moment, I must return to the tasks at hand, for laundry, errands and ROTHBURY (2) are waiting!!