It's been a good Friday if not a great week on the whole, but let's just say it had a rather delightfully debaucherous morning, dim sum for lunch and visit to Chinatown with co-workers, and now, a few hours finalizing the proofs with the designer on SALVAGE, doing some final proofing of the latest zine project, and getting up some new chapbook offerings in the shop ready to start printing next week.
My weekend will be bisected by a Sunday shift, but I am intending on making the most of tomorrow with some creative projects that need to be tended to. The bonus is that the Sunday shift and the next weekend will grant me some half days and later starts perfect for working some more time in the studio. Still alas, not enough time to to do all the things I really am supposed to be doing, but it will help.
Yesterday I was talking with a friend about journals --written vs. electronic, personal vs. public. I realize that my written journals of 15 plus odd years ago were very different from this very blog, which is in fact, very different from the first blogging I did back in 2003. Since I started on Xanga, those entries were much more akin to a diary than the sort of blogging I do now (when I am blogging at all.) This is still a much more public forum, and therefore, I am much less likely to do the sort of thinkingout/workingout of things that I did in more private places. I still feel like I am writing to an audience, here, even if that audience is like that one person out there who still reads poetry blogs anymore. I would like to make this space a little bit more like those other spaces, but I am still not quite sure how that happens. I love the idea of blogging daily, but it never seems to happen, to capture life in more detail somehow, but when I return, I am able to only offer broad strokes. I like the idea of going more in depth on things, treading into deeper waters, but again, it's more like a shallow wash every few weeks when I finally get back here for an update.
Yesterday, creatively, I was very much having the feeling of being a person weighted down with several boxes and suitcases and struggling along, while at the same time, another person, holding only a small box, is being asked how hard it is to work carrying that tiny box. Being lauded and praised for being able to carry that small box so very far. So while I am struggling alongside the road and unable to stop or have time to talk about the load, having to keep momentum lest I lose it completely, this person is flattered an adored for being SO successful. But then, these are merely metaphors and petty insecurities (which poets are unusually prone to) but nonetheless things which have the impact to throw my day just a little off-kilter. But it also feeds the fire a little, which is probably a good thing.
