Sunday, February 24, 2013

The Present: 02.24.13

The Present: 02.24.13
The Present: 02.24.13

Yesterday, staring at a blank screen, I took to writing longhand. It seemed to work. That is, something came of it. A poem, perhaps. It allowed me turn away from the screen, away from what I was writing about, to move in a different direction, multiple directions, so that when I returned to the screen, it seemed as if I'd arrived at the place I'd been trying to get to all along. I incorporated what I'd been looking at before turning away directly into the poem. Perfect. That's the way it works when it works.

That and mucus are the stories of the weekend. A house full of hacking, coughing, sneezing, runny-nosed snifflers. This is round two. It starts with my daughter, who gives it to Lori, who in turn gives it to me. I am hopeful it will make a final exit this week, along with more of the snow.

I drove past the Basset Park dog run Friday afternoon. It's a little park about a mile south of us on the way into New Haven. They used the Dog Run parking lot to dump a lot of snow from elsewhere, creating some of the highest snow mounds I have ever seen, some of them thirty feet high. They probably won't melt until July.

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