on writing and being home.

I haven't felt inspired to write anything in awhile, and I'm almost tired of talking about my book, or explaining what prose poetry is. It's a wonderful feeling when someone tells me how much they enjoyed the book, or what their favorite poems were (usually Lemonade or the long one about nights in IV), but some of those poems have been with me for three years. I'm tired of them and I want new ones, but nothing comes. And all of a sudden I feel like whatever I write, people will be reading and judging, like I have to come up with an instant hit. Maybe I'll go back to my paper journals for awhile.

There probably won't be anymore lovely photos from out at sea since someone crashed the boat into the breakwater (not me!), but I've been swimming at the pool with giggly little girls who are thrilled at the prospect of Hello Kitty goggles, building IKEA furniture, reorganizing my bedroom and trying to make my clothes fit in it somehow, working off my east coast paleness at the beach with Michael, rocking the bells with Age, watching the Olympics and wondering why I was never concerned with actually swimming fast when I was on the swim team in high school.

I hope someone will want to go to UG tomorrow night.