in the middle of the night during all these bouts of insomnia, I think and think through the different possibilities, turning it this way and that– never really arriving at any stunning conclusions– but just to have written one poem can carry me for days. forget audience, forget marketability. here’s a lifeline. forget a book. so many clumps of stuff that don’t quite cohere. so what. just keep trying to push myself to do some kind of work, some kind of play. don’t make it a project. there’s the struggle between the part of me that works intuitively, to the beat of an odd clock, and the other, magisterial part that tries to organize, oversee and plan ahead– feels like they’re positioned so at odds with one another. but keeping going needs to be enough.