I'm working on my poetry manuscript with sudden, acute fervor. There is always a few items at work with artists in this state. Ego, self-loathing, feeling of inevitability of failure and abominable determination.
I've been drawing and writing since I could spew two words out in some sort of coherent order, and develop my interphalangeal articulations and reconcile my first metacarpal with the fine tipped pen. Here I am at 26, pulling it together, honing my skill, putting it out there, and generally trying to make a living at my impulses...
Late into the night I have been grilling my poems and brushing hair of the new MS like a little sister.
I'm sitting in a coffee shop on Graham and Grand street. My feet are cold and people keep opening the door right by me. I'm hungover slightly because Simone and I were up all night talking about poetry and I was (to Ben's chagrin), a shouting, complaining madwoman, swearing there was no such thing as good contemporary fiction, and that I made myself sick.
Why am I saying this? You are not even here.
For my post of THE THE poetry blog this week, I touch on the feeling of going mad among the personality.