I’ve been avoiding blogging for awhile. Paranoid? Mmmmmm maybe. Wanting to keep to myself? Yeah that too. Possibly afraid that to write something on my site would jinx it in reality. Like what, you ask? OK here’s the big one:
My new book All of the Above, feels like both a celebration and the finalization of my poetry career. I push myself to work on it and finish it, but it is my fear that when I do, I might die. The book includes my best work from 1975-2015 — that is a heck of a lot of time writing poems. My poems are the only thing that I really have to show for myself in the world. No children, no family (except my brother’s family, my cousin and my nephew), a lot of books.
With the difficulty I have generating poems because of the copious amounts of psychiatric medications I must take to be able to live a relatively stable life, it is a very difficult, nearly impossible, birthing for each small nugget of verse to come into the world. Each one is a small miracle but carries no guarantee that there will be another poem to follow.
So this is the big looming fear: my sister was told many years ago that she would not live to be 60 years old. She therefore subconsciously decided to oblige her doctors and died two months before her 60th birthday.
I am her sister (or to be more precise, her half-sister) and fear that I will not write anymore after the book is published; that this is it, in a manner of speaking, and it spooks the hell out of me.
Meanwhile, I trudge on. Me and Sir Chumley of Amherst — meowing now for food and some Chumley love. And so it goes. Kitty cats always have precedence.