sooty secrets
buried in black:
bleak as beak.
windswept wood,
wild sweet orange,
swan’s neck swoops.
carefully curated,
beautiful mind hovers
over clear blue sky,
reincarnation of
flightless, imagined
love, figment-tied:
so a
—by Kate Gough

Memo # 12

I have finally instituted a writing day for myself. Non-interpretive, uninterrupted. Awesome.

There is a rose on my desk from Valentine’s Day, I’ve eaten a delicious maple & pecan pastry, I’ve replaced the ink in my printer, and I’m armed with a belly-mug of tea.

First, a meditation.

My favourite thing this week is a difficult toss up between the clear, dense and sparkling blanket of stars over the ocean these past few days, striking like those here in my old mountain range:

and a Neruda ode to socks which I handily rediscovered by being introduced to a frog poem over coffee (online here). My favourite song has been the one from the Hobbit 2 credits, ‘I See Fire’. My overriding intent this week has been to finish up my collaged chest of drawers, but so far, no such luck. The main reason for this saddening failure is that I’ve been saddled with a migraine of the sort that simply wants to shackle me without actually breaking me. Thus, I am reduced to treating it constantly (and treating myself nicely) while foregoing a lot of life and wearing out spectacularly quickly. Hmph.

At night I dream of art like growing vines, and the mysterious smile that speaks of souls in -contact-, learning. Once I get to sleep anyway. My dreads are full of grief at the moment…

Today, I will be bulking out my submittables and preparing at least one packet for the mail. Perhaps deciding on the fate of my next poetry collection: to be or not to be?

Here goes.