A Problem

If you write poems with HenHen in an Irish Pub every night for a week, you start depending on HenHen to tell you whether you have is a poem.

Tonight HenHen's roommates have joined us, and it's quite jolly writing here. They just played my favorite Irish song, "Whiskey in the Jar."

Everyone's poems are pretty surreal, and I wonder whether that always increases later in the week, although personally I'm actually back in realist mode for tomorrow. I'm finding that alternating types of poems makes it easier to keep writing AND makes me feel daring and experimental.

All-positive workshops aren't as productive as I'd imagined. I'm too easily satisfied (although the "revolutionize poetry" thing from yesterday is just a cliche and not what I really meant; I just tend to think what I'm working on is working better while I'm close to it than after I've been away from it). I want to write lots of poems, and have lots of poems, and I also want them to keep getting "better," though "better" is awfully elusive, and those two hopes sometimes seem contradictory.

The pub is funny. We are now famous to the waitstaff. There are usually two people in the handicapped stall of the women's bathroom, but who those people are change from visit to visit.