So I’m back in Michigan, directing a play in the town where I was born. I miss the mountains and the solitude and shooting 8-Ball at the Owl, but it’s been interesting returning to some of the places of my childhood.
I drive down a street in my old neighborhood and memories come flooding from every porch and stoop. I step into a corner store and see myself buying penny candy with my birthday money, feeling rich. One may think that all of this would prove fertile ground for poetry; but, so far, nothing. The only thing I’ve written since being here is a piece that takes place in Kalamazoo.
I was there for a reading recently. A really wonderful night. Great crowd, reception, free beer, good dinner with friends. Caught up with old poet comrades; and met the subject of the one thing I’ve written since I’ve been back in my hometown. Or, started to write, that is. Haven’t found the ending yet.
Anyway, the point of this is simply to ask: “What the hell?” Where’s the flood of words to go with the flood of nostalgia? Maybe I left my writing soul back in the mountains, and am left to flounder here with the other six souls that bounce about within the walls of this morbid boil.
Time to shuffle off.