So far, my mini-writing retreat has produced two new poems and notes for a couple more this afternoon. Of course, when saddled to do nothing but write, I come face to face with how little endurance I really have as a writer, ie, one poem tires me out, another one leaves me mentally exhausted. Hopefully more progress tomorrow...Otherwise, in between poems and bad movies and occasional peeks at the Casey Anthony trial my mother is addicted to, I am sleeping a lot. Not as much as the cats, but it's nice.
I am also going through a box of things my mother uncovered in the closet, which includes boxes of letters from highschool friends and penpals, my senior yearbook, that old blue diary from when I was 14-16, a scrapbook, my postcard collection, and a box full of theatre programs from college. When reading through the diary I was experiencing that weird shifting of self feeling I sometimes get when encountering past versions of my self, almost as if I'd been presented suddenly, physically, with that volatile 14 year old me, whose only concerns were an obsession with boys, a pre-occupation with her weight, and a shakey relationship with her mother. She's really sort of scary and sometimes I fear she's still crawling around inside my normal reasonably sane grown-up self..
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