This process of building websites, and doing an online notebook, raises for me issues of privacy and exposure – how much to reveal? What really is the interest of the (unknown) audience? & when may I name names, and when may I not?
Is the reader knowledgeable enough to realize that poetry is fiction, that the poet is only sometimes the speaker, and sometimes not?
Putting it all out for the whole world to see, even if the world is not looking. Does one want the world to look?
Feeling the need to justify, to explain. After so many years of cautious aloofness (or perhaps shyness; it looks different from different vantage points) to set out my inner life on colors that add light instead of diminish it.
& so much an internal life – short on adventure and anecdote. Who but me cares that the falcon was in the garden today; the flicker at the feeder? Filling up my tiny garden with their large bird selves. Or that I am up in the night, needy for sleep, but unable to track it. Listening to my dog chew his bone.
No light in the sky tonight – first quarter moon, they say, but I can't find that, either.
Building a life from pain and small-moon nights; from sparrows and finches and box elder bugs. The things one notices in the day, and in the wide night hours.
Looking for the dark (or the light) that will fold one in.