a long time gone

almost 4 months since my last missive. Why? A sense of being overwhelmed, of feeling the creative pulse but for some unarticulated reason relentlessly drawing back. Working the garden, time in the darkroom, reading, wavering over the internet, posting brief replies on others' blogs, watching TV politics, playing my bamboo flute, but little writing. I looked at my journal today - the beginnings of a few new poems, the last one about a month ago. even now, thinking about the laundry on the table that needs to be folded, the wood that needs to be stacked. When I took up writing seriously in my twenties, I'd write hours at night after work, after kids were in bed, after all the lights blinked off. I was chasing the same feeling that's lurking, no, lingering on the edge of my consciousness now here at noon as summer moves in & out of autumn clouds. Then, I'd drink, smoke, play music, dance myself into the writing trance. I'd walk a few miles back & forth to work through the old cemetery, chanting new poems, working on line breaks, rhythms, the final phrase that turned the words to music. The writing life is weird, sometimes the daemon takes possession, sometimes an almost manic avoidance. My mentor taught writing till he was in his sixties.  Up to that point, he had published one book. Since he "retired" 15 or so years ago, he's published about ten more. Every day he writes. Maybe today is day one, maybe not.