I could go out and look at the hole that was dug across the street

Alright, I’m back at the table to write, now at about 5 p.m. I could go out and look at the hole that was dug across the street—but I also feel OK saying that it doesn’t matter, you know? That I can ignore it, let it go.

How realizing too that I don’t have to follow a link sometimes feels good, though often I do follow and read.

I was arguing to mom that simple formulas (like when school posters tell kids they should have goals) ignore that some of us don’t need, or are stressed by, such advice (and when adults tell you sh!t you don’t need, smart kids learn to ignore it, trust themselves, develop crap detector).

I realized last night that my back problems—one-sided as they are—may be coming from sitting in the recliner chair, which has lost a spring and sags to the right in the seat area. [My chiropractor] agreed it’d be a problem. He also told me not to sit today. I haven’t, much.

Writing—I sorta wrote about this a couple days ago, about what I want to write about. But I’m not sure I said this: that I don’t want to write so much about other writings, other ideas, other artworks—but that instead, I wanted to write about real things—including things people say. These keep me from getting too caught up in world of abstractions, abstractions-on-abstractions. But poems can be more about reality than news stories—not actually true, but directed at reality, or ideas about reality, than other ideas. News stories, op-eds, are often about other ideas. (I’m not sure I like that distinction.)

[From journal of Tues. 10 June 2014, Journal 195, page 231]

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