I need to be dressed and at the bus stop in an hour, but I feel compelled to linger with my coffee and face the page. I don’t have time to let my thoughts pull out the poetry for my prose. I’ll leave it for the bus ride with music in my ear, I’ll let myself swim in word play. I am remembering grad school and how much writing on a public page helped me to get through it all. I think I miss the overwhelming structure of busy-ness. And I miss how words became my reprieve from my side kick of piles.
I’ve struggled with my blog persona since I’ve been out of school again. It was easier to have one subject taking up my life then to express anything about the other parts. Why? Simply, I am a private person and I like that. I’m trying to give myself permission though to share my life and the people I love. Like Driftwood and The Chief, Stonetree and Seafarer, and so many more. I have some great stories about these beautiful women and sometimes I want the world to see how great they are. Sometimes I just want to share my life. I’m not a poet either. Prose writer, yes! I never professed to be a poet, it was from the mouths of others that the title was invented. I’ve let it linger with me, mulled it over my tongue, and realize I love my poets, but I do not want to be one. I feel more secure in the story and the story gives me space to step outside myself. A friend of mine would probably harp at this moment about how I am way off. But like all things labeled, its best if I decide which labels to own and not.
And that’s about all the time I have to babble on the page. Its time to smoke one last cigarette before dressing and running to the bus.