Like a woman about to go into labor, I suddenly find myself nesting -- clearing space -- I've just cleared an entire (smallish) bookcase and am going to move it to the other side of my tiny study, next to the poetry bookcase which is overflowing -- am generally reorganizing bookcases this week. Target has some 8-shelf cheapo bookcases on sale for $36 and I think I will buy two to replace the nasty block-and-board shelves in my dining room -- these will be taller so will hold more books. I am making space for something and I don't think it's just more books. (Although, speaking of which, it is entirely shameful -- and "shame" is a word I do not use lightly -- how many books I have bought and not yet read. During the several years when I was not writing, I was reading very little -- and have unearthed an entire stash of literary journals from 1995-97 that never got read. I could retire now and never move my ass from my sofa and still not run out of stuff to read before I died.) I am also thinking about doing some serious weeding, selling some books I probably won't read again -- I would give them away or trade them, but if what comes next is what I think it is, I'm going to need cash money.
A fairly productive weekend. Yesterday I drafted two new poems, wrote in my journal for a while, and revised two of my Provincetown poems to the point where I feel they may be finished. (And I'm damn happy with them too.) Today I have been reading Claudia Rankine's Don't Let Me Be Lonely (a D.A. Powell recommendation) and have written in my journal somewhat productively though I haven't really touched any poetry.
I am making space for something. I am hungry, hungry, hungry for whatever comes next.