Friday, January 29, 2016


I LOST ANOTHER FOLLOWER. Maybe they were not impressed with my photo of dolls' heads a few posts back (notice I did not use the adjective "creepy" because I do not think they are creepy and also because I am trying to use less adjectives). Maybe they were angry at my many, many, far too many tangents. Maybe it was just my ex-boyfriend. And, most importantly, maybe I don't care! Not that I don't care about you because I do. I do care about you. And I am happy you are still reading this. Happy. Adjective. Shoot me. Not really. Gun control. Hot button issue.

Have I mentioned multiple times recently that I am "writing a novel"? I am sure I have. When I get stuck on an idea, I can't stop talking about it. It, whatever "it" may be, becomes an obsession for roughly a week and a half before I inevitably abandon it for another, newer, slightly more far-fetched obsession. It's kinda my thing! Abandoning things! And abandoning places and people and personas. Welcome to the life of a Borderline: Impulsively jumping from one project to another, desperately searching for an identity, getting hella hot and cold along the way. Join me. (Don't join me -- stick with stability, please!)

Back to me writing a novel. (I promise to curb my affection for tangential thoughts. But I can't make any promises cuz of that whole Borderline thing.) I have given it a medium amount of thought and, well, perhaps I'm not "cut out" to write a novel. I don't know if it's quite my thing. Yes, abandoning things is "my thing," but so is poetry! It has been for a long, long time, perhaps since high school when I would write love poems to Paul Simon in notebooks from Barnes & Noble with beaded covers and pulpy paper. Burn those poems. They are perfect blackmail material. Anyway. Poetry. I feel at home with poetry, although in many ways it is still a foreign land. (Home, I've decided, can be both familiar and foreign.) I am glad that I still feel like a student when it comes to poetry and writing in general. If I ever develop an ego big enough to think that I know everything, that I have mastered the craft -- stop me. Because that attitude will stop me. I wish to always remain a student, a novice.

So I will write poetry. I will read, eat, sleep, fight with poetry. I will call a truce with poetry. I will speak the truth with poetry. I will continue my relationship with poetry, dedicating the time I would have put into novel writing into poetry writing. I will weave through a field of words, picking a few wildflowers along the way to display in a vase on a page I have yet to create.

Poetry will save me once again.

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