Oh so tired . . . still plugging away.
The 3-yr-old had trouble sleeping, which means daddy had trouble sleeping. From 12:30AM to 4:00AM, he'd get up in 30 minute intervals wanting a drink, to pee, to get rid of a month in his room, to check for monsters. You name it, he came up with a reason for me to pick him up, check his room, and put him back down in the bed.
So, I'm pretty beat. I had a decent breakfast and two cups of coffee. That bought me some time to write, but I'm thinking I might be headed back to bed for a spell.
I'm 56 poems into the "Labyrinth" series and I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I enjoy writing the pieces, but I can't see a shape to the thing, which originally was the whole point, but now I'm looking for corners or edges . . . something to grant me some vision. I need to understand what the whole project seems to wish to become.
Things I know--the boy may or may not be Theseus, the boy may or may not have a confrontation with the minotaur, the boy may or may not escape the maze.
I don't think there's going to be closure to this thing, at least in its current form. I might experiment with the narrative a bit more. . . we'll see.
For now, I'm just content writing these poems. They're fun for me and it has been a good exercise, though I feel like I'm neglecting some of my other work.
Which leads me to think about what I've been into in terms of my writing these days--I've been going for allegories a lot lately, and I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about why. Sounds like an essay to me.
An essay . . . oh lord.
Yeah, I need a nap.
Happy Birthday, Sylvia Plath