I dreamed of the sea flowing into me, of me, flowing into the sea.
This space of time is surreal; so much finishing, starting, so many ways to fuck it all up, so many ways to make it all sing. I’m trying to pay attention, and to bring every single thing I’ve got going for me to the table. I fail daily, but often do better than most.
I channel various conflicting influences, trying to see my work anew before I sign it.
“I have forced myself to contradict myself in order to avoid conforming to my own taste.” – Marcel Duchamp
I am not ready to leave. How could I be? How can I be.
I always exit Tucson reluctantly, but as soon as the door closes behind me, my mind is fully forward, and I am On Adventure. I’m used to the last-days melancholy, the personality quirk that never lets me forget that each day could be my last day.
How can I make new again what rusts every time it rains?
I’m noticing, being present. Last night, Larry and Graham and Kellner came over for a goodbye pool party. Kellner confused me by reciting lots of Byron and Shelley in a Poetry Voice which I did not know that he possessed. Larry had some William Blake.
Themes battle for dominance in my mind; the new book licks at my edges daily; my subjects (or victims, as Hartmann calls their cohort) are reaching out to me, every day. It is an understatement to say that my mind is in places I did not expect it to be.
Relentlessly, I push pages though Edit. Posters arrive tomorrow.