A drop in the bucket. A few.
***
Look at that. I'm up and not tired. It's dark out--very--otherwise I'd leave here to walk in the coolness with the trains and the silly crickets. (Why are the crickets still here? Shouldn't they be dead?) --Am excited about teaching Thomas and Beulah. About the good poems pouring into workshop. I have little crushes on lots of people around me, which makes days exciting and full of thinking and dreaming, and it turns out being a student again--receiving again--brings back the most pleasureable complicities. Dependency. Stealing time. Fantasy conversations and bibliographies. Awe. The shyness in me, the clumsiness. The restlessness and wanderlust way past the other side of boredom. I want to hunker down in the library stacks where eventually you'll forget me: remember that feeling? Maybe it never left you. I met with 12 or 15 kids yesterday and enjoyed every one of them. In fact it was easy. Point is, I had it to give. They were nervous. In a good way. I'm nervous too.
***
No, no, no, no, no, no:
"And my heart had a problem, in the early hours,
So I stopped it dead for a beat or two.
But I cut some cord, and I shouldn't have done that,
And it won't forgive me after all these years.
So I sent it to a place in the middle of nowhere
With a big black horse and a cherry tree.
Now it won't come back, cause it's oh so happy
And now I've got a hole for the world to see."
***
