April Eighth:

I like the poems I’m writing. They are not necessarily the events as they happened, but they are as they live inside my memory. These first drafts are messy, but not unsalvageable. The unsalvageable ones are collected around my wastebasket. There are books all over my floor. This project is turning me into a very messy person. Or perhaps all this time with myself is merely making me realize this. Poetry is an eternal exercise in self reflection.

The diligence of writing every day is wonderful. I am never sure if I can find something to say when I wake in the morning, but there is always a poem by the end of the day. After millennia of poems being written about every imaginable thing, it is a miracle that there are still some left for me.

I will say that my memory is not as clear as I wished. Visualizing this project, I thought every day I could simply pick a memory from the air and start writing. But my mind is full of holes. I do my best to fill in the details, but this collection is turning out to be much less of an autobiography of place, and more one of spirit. Maybe it’s better that way. My life was never that interesting to begin with.

I am also finally contending with my terrible ability to spell. Spell check is wonderful.

Here are some drafts. Good luck decoding them: