Today is one of those interesting and maddening swirly sort of days in which I feel brimming with ideas and at the same time frustrated that there never seems to be time to tackle them. So I make lists. And lists of list. Rip them up. Start over. Or more often, don't even know exactly where to start. I place my finger down right at the midpoint of summer every year and every year, I feel like it should be more. More productive. More organized. More creative. More something. Just more.
I feel myself being pulled more in the direction of prose than poems of late. And in that, all flush with ideas for projects and in need of some sort of tether, some sort of line through them and out the other side. so I make lists of them. Rip them up. Start over.
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