resolution xvii

awoke this morning to that fleeting resolve to *do* something more creative. to find some way to get past fear into something more constructive. part due to talking with j last night - her stories of the landscape of sage hill, the luxury of days spent writing, the discipline of sitting with a poem and making it work. in my head i've always entertained the fantasy of writing - of someday being able to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and coaxing out something beautiful. i think i'm beginning to understand that beauty, like everything else, requires practice to rein it in, make it coherent.

so there are tasks to finish. so what? the house will be here, always, always hungry for improvements, always willing to take more. i'm reading cunningham's specimen days at the moment, and quite liking it - there's some stuff in there about the hunger of the dead, of the animate in the inanimate. the dead are in the grass, in the machines. in my house?

the tasks that are more important should be this quiet growth, the building of faith and courage. the finishing of that cursed thesis, the practice of writing, the freedom of painting. light work. or lightening work maybe?

i know i've had these moments of resolve before, and as with so many things, played with it for a while and let it slide, only to pick it up again months, years, later with a commitment to do it right this time. i suspect this is a fatal flaw. i guess the goal for me should be to mend it.

and so off to another day at work, solo in the office today - fridays are my lone day. on the to do list today: writing back to noam chomsky and howard zinn. sometimes my job makes me laugh.

and thankfully, today there's lunch at markham and painting to end the week. and the heat has seemingly abated for a time and it's a perfect summer day outside. there are always morsels of grace to feed on, i guess, no matter how insatiable i feel.