Thankless, tiring, frustrating day today. Jezebel is potty-training at her own insistence (she won't keep a diaper on even with duct tape). This sounds great but what it means is me sitting on the bathroom floor reading books several hours a day (while other children, dog, and kittens get into unknown trouble). And me cleaning poop off of the floor (when I find it...).
Sometimes I want to get in the car and just drive, and keep on driving, and keep on driving. See if I can be someone else for awhile. Then I realize I'd still be driving a minivan. Fuck.
Got really high praise on a new poem I submitted to my poetry criticism list today, from a poet I respect a lot. No, you will not see the poem on this blog or anywhere else. But I wanted to say so about the good critique I got, anyway. Maybe poetry isn't as popular an art form because it's too hard to share your poetry with people. If I were a painter and I did a painting about hate, for example, no one would really know it was about hate unless I explained it. Poetry has the distinct disadvantage of utilizing language as its artistic medium. It's too honest. If the poet obscures her meaning in metaphor, the poem is shit. If a painter disguises her meaning in oils, it's art. The more paint, the better.