I feel like blogging… but I have not a thing to write… not really, anyways… I had hoped something would come to me… I did have one thought, but it’s kinda vague.. .but hey, it’s been a while since I’ve been vague, so let’s be vague…

disclaimer: this vagueness is not even vaguely connected to other vaguenesses that are being vaguely discussed with other peoples…

poetry… you know, with everyone posting some kind of poetry or talking about writing stories on their blogs, I almost wish I still did creative writing. Most people might not peg me for being a writer, but I am/used to be. I have a novel floating around in my mind. It’s been there for two, almost three years now; and it’s all there, start to finish. The characters are defined and have physical description as well as attitudes. The places are all in my mind, with some even on paper… I used to have all the dialog, but it’s fading away… it’s all fading away… Every day I don’t write, another page slips from my mind, but I just don’t have time to write… One of my initial motivations for starting the blog was to have a place to type little things to myself when I felt like it without having to be behind my computer, but well… it just turned into something completely different which isn’t bad…

oh, back to poetry… I guess one thing that bothers me is I’ve completely stopped writing poetry. It wasn’t a gradual thing… I just stopped. And it really is something that bothers me… Any time I have tried to write any poetry since then, I cannot help but think of the last poem I wrote… It was pretty much the best poem I’ve ever written, but it wasn’t the one that won me a medal in poetry (which yes, I have one), in fact, the last poem I wrote has never been shown to anyone, except maybe one. It really was something to write… It just came out… Most of the time, if I wanted poetry to rhyme, or be in a certain rhythm, I had to think about it or work with the words, but this one just sprang out, all at once, without ever correcting anything. The entire thing was written in a matter of moments, and in leaving me that quickly, it left a scar… I guess you could say that you really have to cut deep to pour out that much so quickly. So now when I look inside to that place where all poetry should come from, I can’t help but see the scar and turn away…

It’s kind of ironic, but my appropriate quote of the day has now become an extremely appropriate quote of the day:

“As memory may be a paradise from which we cannot be driven, it may also be a hell from which we cannot escape.” — John Lancaster Spalding (1840 – 1916)