rhythm of the train

Today, I come home exhausted. So many days of leaving as the sun rose (the sun reflected on the body of a train, students waiting on bikes, hair brushed back by the breeze of the boxcars, me waiting at the light, school on the other side) and arriving as the sun sets, twelve plus hour days in the building, only knowing the sun in its full is just on the other side of that glass.

I came home last night to K working at the computer on the patio. (Apologies for the blurriness of the picture, but the shutter was open for an obscene amount of time.)

Creative writing did an adaptation of an exercise we did in my persona poem workshop. Person, place, thing--we made big lists on the whiteboard, then had to write a piece in which we selected one random person (Frederica, the flamenco dancer) was in one place (a cabin in the woods) with an object (a large glass of red wine) and had to get them out of that situation. (This was m poem from Saturday.) They had all kinds of ideas for roles--Ed, the bounty hunter on Mars with a block of cheese, etc. I loved how willing to get wild they were, how easy it was for them to allow their minds to slip and create.

Rehearsal was fine, as usual. Many had to leave early, frustrating my co-director immensely. It was the first day with the pit and the second day in costume. Shoes were a problem, hair, etc. Kathryn drew me a princess, and she sweetly requested a prince. We are all in love with knights in shining armor. I am almost finished with the Tristan and Isolde triology. I think I will settle into some of those inspiring creative writing books for a while; I have almost filled a notebook, which hasn't been done since I was in college. I write morning pages, and tonight I will begin night pages, which makes at least three moments in my day--morning, afternoon with creative writing, night. So much on my mind that I cannot stop... and here, too. Here, where I also include visual aids for what I see during the day: