Admired magazine today decided to collaborate with me and make me their poetry editor. A very big move. Amazing how I could feel everything open and close so fast, like breathing itself in a moment, the in-out-in-out of every single speck of karma that has and will transpire between me and other writers. I get to get credit, to read and read poetry, to write on others' work, and most esteemedly, to sollicit from some pretty high up names. This excites me beyond belief. Yet I got home tonight and I felt closed. Something can be so tight about home for me, away from the w i d e o p e n world. Preservation of my own time and space when others are around and so close. I lived alone for four years, and although I wouldn't wish to go back to that, it is hard to run full speed with a household sometimes. Or I make it hard, maybe. I think usually I just need silence (my personal favorite "space"), but when the cat goes crazy and the roommates are rushing out the door with updates, that doesn't usually come with much grace.
And yet it is all grace. Written word. Incontinence. What would make it *not* graceful?
My tightness, for one. Piles of to do and nothing loved for ten minutes can make me tired. Why do anything other than what I love, constantly? Consistently.