The boy with the empty plate at the poetry buffet.

It’s happening again. I’m forgetting what poetry is.

This happens a lot. I forget how to write poems. I don’t know what they are anymore, I don’t understand them, and I feel frustrated.

I become a very picky reader. I don’t like anything I hear or read. I think everything’s been done already and there’s no use writing. I get frustrated, anxious.

But in the past couple of weeks I’ve read two really good books: Pamela Painter’s The Long and Short of It and Neil Smith’s Bang Crunch. Both are inventive short story collections, both gorgeous.

I wish I could stick books directly into my head like a tape into a VCR.

I wish I knew what I was trying to say.

I got a nice rejection note from Ausable Press today that said my manuscript was very good and I should try submitting again.

I needed that.

The Reluctant but Joyful Quantum Physicist

I have realized over the past week that I am a quantum physicist at heart, not a poet. My heart is not a poet. I was reading more in the Buffy book about quantum physics, and I saw myself there when it said [paraphrased]:

A particle’s behavior changes simply by virtue of being observed or measured.

The illustration for this involved photons (a single particle of light) shot through a wall with two slits in it.

When measured for particle behavior, the photon is forced to choose which slit to pass through, since it cannot divide itself and go through both.

When measured for wave behavior, the photon does pass through both slits and projects a wave pattern on the measurement instrument. This defies common laws of physics.

This makes me think of: the panopticon, reality television, Rear Window, Arden:

It means witness determines outcome.