My god. Numerous posts in the last week with much pondering of the pregnancy.
Am I finally cluing in? Am I fixating? Am I suddenly in the presence of a muse?
Hell, no. I’m procrastinating.
I’m drafting [at least in my head] on my lunch hour when I should be editing poems or phoning the contractor about our basement. I’m typing, surfing and uploading photos at night when I should be wrapping presents and cleaning for the impending parental influx. [and that influx is this Wednesday, no less.] I’m reading, as I surf, about death of Tookie Williams, the allowances made for the ‘war on terrorism’ [and other wars] in the states, our [by comparison] uber-tame federal election and some freaky physics stuff – all the while listening to our local radio stations food bank campaign or skimming the Harold Pinter’s speech on Art, Truth & Politics that was given to us as a starting point at the last poetry studio.
After absorbing everything that’s going on outside, it becomes rather imperative to simply write about something. Anything.
And then, my cat or my dog walks in demanding attention, or I realise that I am hungry [and able to readily to choose from a disturbing array of foodstuffs].
I am horrendously under-qualified to comment on anything other than what is occurring to me personally at any given moment: the pets, the pregnancy, the parents, the partner.
It’s … all nice enough. Perhaps [I hope] on some level, it’s relevant for someone else.
It’s just not terribly worldly. And I don’t get a damn thing done.