I should be good at revision. I’ve revised my life time and again. I’ve revised my location, my wardrobe, my hair, my lifestyle, my relationships, my eccentricities. Not so much my politics, but most of the rest of what constitutes my self.
Ah, but revising poetry. And working on revising a manuscript. That’s hard work. Well, hell, it’s all hard work. There is a towheaded child, I’d guess around 3 years old, squatting about in my yard, crab-walking, playing with dirt. There are dogs lapping up at a group of adults standing in a tight circle, chatting–these are neighbors of mine, here where I now live. I suppose I should go outside and join them, do the neighborly thing. After 4 long days of working in the clinic, though, I’m plumb wore out of talk. Or desire for talk. It’s fall here, northernly in the northern hemisphere, sailing into the dark again.
And yet, I suppose I’m procrastinating by blogging here, now. Then again, maybe not. Who really knows what or why they are doing? A quarter if you can answer that one.
I am enjoying many things at a distance. Discovery Bay and the bump of Port Townsend in the foreground and just a glimpse of Victoria at the edge of my world. Some late migrators at the bird feeder. The dog is now chasing the kid, a mom is backing out of her drive in a grey pickup, waving to the child, the circle is dispersing, back to whatever it is we each do in our own time and space.
Me, I’m revising. Again.