Holden doesn't feel like talking to Mr. Antolini about his life. In fact, Holden is a little over twelve hours away from being hospitalized. He's sick. Very sick. And he doesn't want to discuss the current direction of his education. He wants to go to sleep.
I'm not that sick any more. I'm on the mend. My stomach still hurts a little bit, but I can pretty much perform most of my normal daily activities. However, I don't really feel like writing a post tonight. I'm simply posting for the sake of posting. It's the end of the month, and I don't want to wimp out on the last day of August.
Since last weekend's little medical emergency, I haven't thought much about poetry. I haven't thought much about anything but teaching and sleeping. That's been my focus. I know, I know. I'm being lazy. It almost feels like I'm using my appendicitis as a reason to not write a new poem. There may be some truth in that statement.
I haven't been very inspired this week. However, if I waited for inspiration to strike all the time, I'd never write another poem ever. Inspiration strikes about as often as lightning. It's simply a matter for me of knuckling down and getting to work.
Not tonight. Tomorrow.
Saint Marty promises. He doesn't have his fingers crossed. Really, he doesn't.
|I'm not fibbing|