Writing today, at least for a while. But I'm also on a quest.
The challenge with any transition is that some things get left behind, fall by the wayside. Life goes on. Maybe there's regret or maybe it just drops out of active memory ... until the day when you need it again. Then the hunt is on.
So it is with me. Amid eruptions of stories of other worlds or other times, I'm also looking for poetry I've written then chucked away on a shelf or stacked somewhere in one of 15 boxes waiting for sorting and saving or disposal. Maybe I'll find Bird Watchers, The Dueling Tree, or Not Real Horsemen in a frayed steno pad or on a 5x8 index card — or a restaurant napkin tucked in a blank book. And I hope — please, oh please — some version of a few I'm looking for weren't among the papers that fell victim to a puppy litter's happy day of Shred & Spread a dozen years ago.
And while I quest and write —an interruption to an eruption. What to title this collection of speculative poetry, verses exploring edges where real and unreal converge? Do I pick a poem and use its title? Dreamspinner? That might work, but I wonder how unique, how fitting it is. Raw People? Might get attention, but this isn't a collection of cannibal poems. Or do I try for a title to summarize or brand it in some way? Illusions and Visions? Leaping the Limits? Aaaack — I know I can do better !
Maybe it's time to switch to another eruption — there's a quintet of Krakatoa's needing attention. Let the lava from this lyrical one flow undisturbed for a bit. I can still continue the quest when I leave the keyboard.
Or **hearing whines and toenails tap-dancing** maybe it's time to chase the skinks from basking spots before I let the dogs outside. Reality goes on.
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