(no subject)

Writing a bit, cleaning the freezer a bit, making a bit of dinner... I used to write poetry seriously, imagine that.

I'm actually kind of peeved that I'm not seeing my PT until Thursday -- some muscles are getting sore in my upper back / lower neck and I'm not sure if that's because I'm not stabilizing this one vertebra well enough, or because I am and those muscles are just all full of scar tissue and not used to working right. I think it's the latter this time, because even when I am really good about relaxing and centering my stance, which usually means I'm in really good form, they tweak a bit.

I give blood tomorrow. Hope that doesn't knock me for a loop the way it did last time. I kind of want to cancel, but after spending so many years trying to get them to take my blood, I'd feel really dumb saying they can't have any more. I'll give it a try or two more.

walking over my own grave

Or something like that. So I was typing up some of my more recent poetry (not a lot of it) so I could have some stuff to play with on the device. Not sure how the device will do long term as an major editing tool, but it works well for getting ideas down, and for final polishing. I've had kind of a weird partial block about poetry for the last few years (probably not a great loss to humanity) but I'm starting to think about how to get through it...)

Anyhow, I pulled out a couple of folders of old poetry to see if I could find a couple of pieces. And found all but one of them, BTW (I'm hoping a friend has a copy of that one...) But what was weird wasn't the poems themselves, most of which I could probably have reconstructed from memory, but the marginalia -- notes on the other poems being read, notes I was passing to another student (and being passed for that matter)...

What a weird class. I still wonder if the professor would have irritated me half as much in different circumstances... I suspect at least half as much, anyway.

And that being the case, why did my writing improve so much under him?