Caught. On the horns of a dilemma. Lonely, yet craving solitude.
An introvert wanting only to contemplate my omphalos.
A writer with writer’s block, unable to converse.
The unruly mob, myriad characters inhabit my inner world,
clamoring for conversation.
Or perhaps. I just miss
[NOTES and a Rant:
First to the purists: I acknowledge that I’ve perverted the definition of “omphalos”. I’m hoping it adds just a little humor. And then a note to those of you who know me. I’ve heard from many of you after posts, concerned that I might be sad or disturbed. Please don’t worry. Writers are quilt-makers. We scavenge little bits of cloth and stitch them together, hoping someday to create a tapestry with an engaging pattern–one that causes your eye to see something that transcends the detail. Yes, if you look closely, you might see a bit of my old prom dress, or yesterday’s tee shirt, or even a bit of your hol(e)y comforter. You may feel concern for me, or even feel that I’ve infringed on your privacy. But it is the larger tapestry that I am striving toward. What I write is not fact.
And to my artist friends. Yes, there is an irony in my writing what is in essence an artist’s statement. Maybe that is something we should move toward… a parallel to contemporary art. A poem with an artist’s statement to explain the poem, just in case you didn’t get what I was saying. But more about that tomorrow in a full-on RANT.]