Cloth in the Sun

I don't want to write about Childhood, Autumn, or Morning Smells.

I'm pretty sure I don't want to write long hand on paper when, my whole life, I've typed poems on the computer. I get what they mean about distractions and the internet, turning your phone off ect. BUT at the same time, why would I ignore digital technology? Yes my attention span is impaired... but it seems untrue to write my observations down in a hand-made journal in the woods rather than pluck my ideas out of my iphone notes and type them out to my blog. The critic in me is persistant.

So today, in the workshop, I am writing (long-hand) my page-long shpeil about a charged kid memory about a kitchen, but it doesnt interest me, no matter how "real" or "honest" I get. It might be interesting, but not to me.

Instead, I want to write about this folded cloth on the porch across the street from my sister's apartment in Bloomington, Indiana. It met the sun just so, that I thought it must be a cat-- the intention that it sat with, when the rest of of the porch was shaded.

But instead of just saying that-- I am qualifying it with contexts and complaints because I feel the creep of preciousness encrouching in from these workshops about The Senses and things we Remember.

Maybe it's becuase I'm looking out whats coming out the end of my pen like its some fecal dung thinking "what the fuck is this? is this my voice? so lame" I'm thinking that because its not actually terrible, or great. It's fine. Which is unnacceptable. I want different standards.

I missed my blog today.