I’m trying to develop a space where I feel creative and happy and this means books and plants and both are growing towards the sky. The ones that are growing tall I prop up with books, stacks of books, poetry books and autobiographies and essays and everything that reminds me that other people have lived through experiences I didn’t even know existed.
I read these books before I fall asleep and I wake with the sun. I listen to songs that sound like nostalgia even though they are new and I make myself toasted cheese sandwiches for lunch even though that doesn’t sound as poetic as the other stuff I’ve been doing.
A few weeks ago I planted some spinach seeds and I thought they wouldn’t sprout because it’s winter and because I overwatered them but two little stems have appeared and I’m excited, really excited.
I write letters to friends and I read through my own collection of poetry. I’m still researching how to get it published when every literary agent I’ve found doesn’t accept poetry submissions but I’m trying and trying and today that feels like enough, though some days it doesn’t.
The other day I ate a blueberry that tasted like dirt and for some reason I can’t get that out of my head because I love metaphors and also because it was so nasty it’s burned into my brain. I find metaphors in everything, and I suppose this one would be; life has good days and bad days, but a bad one doesn’t ruin the whole batch or doesn’t mean the whole batch is going to be bad, or something like that.
I hope you don’t eat a blueberry that tastes like dirt, though I’m sure many people out there have.