Why is it that whenever I try to write and produce something deliberately, I can't come up with anything? Today I bought three tiny moleskin notebooks for writing. As I sat down in the dining hall with the notebook open and my green pen in hand, I was shocked and horrified to realize that the sole poetic thought in my head was a mental image of the ducks from the duck pond, sitting on the sodden earth in an effort to escape their overflowing pond. The only time I come up with someone I'm somewhat proud of is when I'm least expecting it. I'm afraid having my moleskin notebook with me will be a subconcsious reminder that I'm not unexpecting. Oh well. I've learned that you can't force good writing.
Aside from the moleskin notebooks, I bought an umbrella today, and Barack Obama gave me seven hundred and fifty dollars. Don't ask me to explain why. Also, the conjunctivitis has traveled into my other eye. Somebody asked me if I had been crying, and someone else asked if I was high. No to both of those, but thank you for the concern. While I waited in the waiting room of University Health Services (for an hour and a half, but now is not the time for complaints) a nurse walked by and told me she liked my rainboots. She had a pretty face and her eyebrows were meticulously groomed. She wore a cylindrical hat with colorful fake jewels on it. From underneath the hat peered out grey fuzzy hairs. They looked so soft; I imagine they felt like baby hair. They weren't grey because she was old, but because all the color had faded away and the grey was all that was left.
Today I got two poems in the mail from Erin O'Donnell, for my zine. Any day you recieve free poetry in the mail from Erin O'Donnell is a good day. They are wonderful.
I'm sick of hearing myself complain about my writing