Sunday, January 9, 2011

328) this weekend, ducks and persian food

the literary life 1/9/11

This weekend, so far, has been fun. Friday kicked off with some clothes shopping and our holiday happy hour after work, which was a relaxing place to blow off some steam. On Saturday, my husband and I went for a walk around the lake, where we saw ducks and geese and coots and grebes. The sky was overcast and the temps low enough to feel cool but not uncomfortable. We saw a pair of ducks fornicate in the water near the end our walk, and the whole thing was an awkward spectacle. The deed seemed rather functional. Later we had pho on Ventura before we went home to chill away the afternoon. In the evening, we went to a friend's dinner party where we were treated to delicious turkey kabobs and Persian rice. And this morning I woke up with a poem at the tip of my mind, so I rushed out of bed and scribbled attentively in my journal. It felt like the poem had "arrived." I had not consciously summoned it. It knocked me awake, demanded entry on to the page. A poem about love. It took thirty minutes to finish the first draft. I might type it up later. I might make a paper airplane out of it. We'll just have to see. But it felt good to write like that. My goal lately has been to write at least one poem a week. And I want to send out submissions at least a couple of times a month. And I want to write with pens that give me a little attitude, that talk back. I don't like to use pens that don't have a will of their own. See what I mean? I think I'm going to go to the gym later today and pretend I'm one of those people. Those people who know how to work a treadmill and stride with purpose. People who use terms like "energy shake" and "crunches." I'm no good at pretending though. My facial expressions always reveal what I'm thinking. I could never be an actress. I do, however, want to write poems and cook meals and make it to the gym once in a while. I want more weekends like this where my competing needs are somehow all met artfully. Where there are moments of speech and moments of silence. Where words arrive on the glistening heels of the sun, and my muse seems to be in a good mood.

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