Postcards from the Imagination

     I picked up a pristine hardcover copy of Charles Olson's Selected Poems for $12 at Tim's Used Books in Provincetown. Just reading Creeley's preface has sparked the beginnings a poem which will probably keep me busy most of the day.

     The fireworks were nice, though I remember being more knocked-out by them last year. It was probably just me. I was exhausted by nine o'clock last night. An almost predictable (and definitely too tedious to blog about) series of mishaps set us back by several hours after we'd skimped on sleep to get an early start. I napped on the beach, but only long enough make myself groggy. Yet for all that, we had a wonderful time. Generally I'm not the materialistic sort, but I do envy those lucky folks who can afford a summer home near the ocean.

     Does anyone else daydream about assuming a pen name to write crappy romances or detective stories that pay the bills? Or porn perhaps? Porn is easy enough to write, and someone must be making a living off it. In my daydream I spend a few hours a day "working" and the rest of my time reading and writing what I love. I never have to use an alarm clock, or commute, or wear make-up, or struggle against my natural tendency to arrive fifteen minutes late. My bank account isn't bottomless, but there's usually enough for dinner at India Palace and maybe just one more book. I do Europe on a budget, but I do it at least a couple of weeks each year. The rest of the summer I spend near my mother ocean.

     So what's your daydream?