Today kicked off Montpelier Poem City, a month-long celebration of poetry.
Part of that celebration includes poems posted for the duration at various businesses and part of that posted includes two of my efforts: “Father and Son” at Kellogg Hubbard Library and “My Personal Town” at Heney Realtors.
Normally I would be excited. And I am excited. Of course I am. How could I not be?
Writing is my passion and is something that I do on a daily basis, regardless of whether or not any of that daily makes its way to readers. And here are all kinds of fun-sounding, writing-related things happening that should-would fuel my excitement. And they do.
It’s been a difficult year. Is a difficult year.
The kind of difficult where the time demands of eking out something falling far short of a living will make it impossible to attend many of the events. The kind of difficult that makes the non-eking time spent in a funk of despair that is an obstacle all its own to attendance. The kind of difficult that leads to large gaps of time between blogs; time that is filled with being stressed, overwhelmed, and otherwise not in a good frame of mind.
And sure, I know that is when I probably should be creating the most, turning that difficult into art; god knows there are many things therein to write about.
And I think about writing – blogging in particular — about such things, but then I get too depressed about such things to put word one on the page; it being a fine line between adversity firing up one’s creativity and its burning one alive.
I felt pretty burned up today after working all day; like a walking pile of ash.
But I stoked the coals of my soul enough to get me to tonight’s event, where David Budbill spoke about poetry and read some poems, both components worth listening to. Enough so, I ended up purchasing one of his books. Enough so, his remarks should be blogged about.
However, this particular blog isn’t about that. It’s about after that.
A reception followed the kickoff.
I have always admired sculptors who install their work in the public square for anyone to view. Art should be shared; is meant to be shared. The displayed poems are a vast literary installation that is pretty darn nifty.
So I went over to thank Rachel Senechal for putting on the event and say my little sculpture comparison remark. She called me by name, remembering me from the spelling bee. As if this didn’t surprise the hell out of me enough, she mentioned the poem I wrote also by name (Father and Son).
This touched me more than anyone could possibly know, happening at a time when I’m feeling fairly hollowed out most of the time.
I can’t say my soul is fully reconstituted.
But, upon that touching, its ashes have coalesced enough for me to write this, which I will now put up as a blog, thus ending the most recent large time gap.
I should probably thank her for that.
And I hope this blog does so.