Today, the day has fallen in half.  It’s beautiful when this happens.  The morning, cool and wet, threatening storms, led me into my office where I toiled.  I do hate toiling, at times.  Lots of times.  My mom can attest to this, as she often has.  But by the time I left my office, climbed up the cement steps toward the street, the clouds had broken up.  Fall leaves were blowing over the damp sidewalk seams.  So, instead of working on my proposal for my spring freshman comp class, I’ve come to the coffee shop to work on poetry.

A strange phrase.  Since this kind of work is, really, still vocational for me.  Still cathartic, still gives me a sense of purpose and joy.

And it still surprises me that part of the work of poetry is attentive observation.  For instance: I’ve just come from my friend Kayla’s blog, a post she has just written about disappearance, how patriarchal, oppressive thought erases women, and I am a woman.  I struggle with feelings of erasure most of the time — imagine my attention, how the side-by-side images of the Saudi IKEA catalog shimmered.  I will write about this.

Another instance: I’ve also just come from my friend Katie’s blog, where she has written about a certain kind of verbal gesture, how degrees of admiration can make it out into the world.  Ok, also about catcalls.  But once, a stranger said to her, “Eres un poema visual.”  Once, someone said, “Hola, ¿cómo estás aparte de bella, dulce y sonriente, preciosura?”  What is this, is it a desire to beautify?  At its best, is this kind of gesture a hope for the world?

I may have to spend lots of money on depressing things (just found out insurance will *not* cover my annual $900 procedure, when I was assured that it would).  But I have a lot of hope right now.  Being attentive.  Grist for the mill.

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