Editing, and Creating...Always on my Mind...

I was setting my papers together, getting my poems into a package to submit for publishing, and then I was also re-editing some short stories I have, as well as longing to get to my other projects.

I almost feel like they call to me: "what about me....what about me...? Will I be seen today?" A neverending work, and the title of David Eggers' book comes to my mind: "A Heartbreaking work of Staggering Genius." Satire is another thing...mixed with realism....but that's for another blog...Suffice to say, I am feeling like all this work I am putting into my projects will pay off in the end: someone will see that there is genius here.

Anyway, I was doing all these things, working on all these projects simultaneously, while working also on finishing some job apps, and finishing up my submission package for an MFA program I would like to enter, while I am still disturbed between wanting to go into that and/or working through a Ph.D program, but that brings new complications, like taking the GRE all over again, since I hadn't had use for the last one taken over 10 years ago, and then.....Then, it happens...



© by Lydia Nolan
June 10, 2011

This is just a temporary drive,
I tell myself, because it’s the rain inside me—I know this.
The bleak day feeling—
The night that follows it here.

Just ahead, I can barely make it out...
These headlights in winter
Limit vision of the road as only
Darkness beyond the blurred windshield can.
It's night in these walls inside me—I know this.

Familiarity to the knowledge that there will be no oncoming traffic—
Insensed by the knowledge there will be only quiet for a long, long while...

If I could only make you feel this heavy thing inside me:
The pull downward, I call it:
Downward, right in the middle of my chest, and
On the depressed road that winds
Around this huge mountain of thought.

Imagine the asphalt roads are barely poured, still sticky, and wanting to harden while
You try and make your way through it...It doesn’t want you to drive through,

Because you’re not supposed to be there in the first place.
Your inner vehicle is slow and
Burdensome, yielding only for curves,
But working hard to keep it moving...
Even though it’s dark.

It happens when something happens and you do some things to make it go away.
Then, you get to this place, and you have to forge through until it’s over on its own.

There are no guiding lights, no
North Star pointing the way home.
The skies are covered with clouds;
That blanket of stars, so that only
Your headlights see your way solemnly back home.

And you suddenly realize that you are alone, but you’re not, only—but you are...
But you can’t see anyone else on the road; you can’t talk to anyone in the vehicle,

You’re alone, for all intents and purposes,
The rest of the way, but daylight—
Daylight is what you’re looking for...
Daylight comes next, you just have to keep
The vehicle inside, from veering off the road,
And rolling down the cliff to nowhere.

And no one will drive past tonight, in this warm sunny day, because:
It’s night only for you. And the day might shine outside, but the night is in you,

It’s always night like this, when something happens and you do some things to make it go away,
But it only comes to this place, and you have to forget and drive through until it’s over...


Well, I tell myself, that was that. I had this terrible urge to make people understand what writers go through from the inside out. I was nowhere near the real feeling of it all, but I had taken a detour from my work, if only for a moment, to write this partial sensed emotional roller coaster ride I take now and then, coming around more and more I have noticed, and I think to myself: something has got to give, damnit! Something. And after this profuse effusion of emotional communication, I have to get some lunch and watch a movie, just to get back to "morning."


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