Moon Memo: Living in Notebooks
Good morning from Portland Oregon, where I am living out of notebooks again. I am 285 poems into the year (there have only been 229 days so far). I set a goal for myself that I would write a poem a day, minimum, and I am well above that at this point. Mostly written on the phone or keyboard in the morning over coffee. And it's lead to some of the best work of my life. But I've missed the feeling of paper and ink. There is something just primal and visceral about the connection of hand to the page that I've missed.
A few weeks ago I found a pile of Field Notes that I had set aside to pass along to friends. The little versions were too small for me to write proper poems on them, I thought. But what if I used them just to write? Just in moments that I wanted to just to play with language out in the world again? Sit with coffee and a pen and paper and some music on the earbuds and just jot whatever bullshit I wanted to? Just play again.
So that's what I did.
I filled the first 48 page little notebook in 2 weeks. I'm on the second right now. Filled a little corner of my notebook drawer with some new ones (as usual, I went overboard, and got something like 5 years supply if I do a notebook a month. Sigh...). Found a neat way to keep a notebook and pen and some stickers and my new little video game (I got a portable tetris machine, the size of a credit card...tetris helps with pattern recognition, and I need to keep the brain limber, and to have something that I can spend 15 minutes just dinking around doing at work for my break again) together so I have them easy and together wherever I go. Here it is:
It's nice to be playing in paper again. When I'm writing in these little things it's not to write a poem. It's to take notes. It's to make lists. It's to remember things for work. It's not immortal. It's Just Right Now. And I'm loving that. Better than typing onto a black screen that screams the whole world's problems at me. Election and it's nonsenses (couch fucking. Assassinations and bloody ears. Dropouts. Madness). Slaughter in Gaza. Another war, and another, and another. I want to be able to shut out the world and just play with language. Doesn't have to be a poem (though it often is.). Just play in language. A poet in repose.
Sun is just coming up. Rice cooker has clicked. Jade has returned from their walk. Coffee with Elodie later, talk about the whole damn world or nothing at all. Then a threesome with the New Girl and one of my dearest friends. Puddle together, three trans women gloried in our bodies, just happy to be alive and touching. This summer has gotten away from me. Between the trip to Nebraska and all the trash fires at work and depression and everything else, I feel like this hasn't even been a summer. And so it goes.
But it's been lovely too. Met Sunflower in a selfie group. She's a good sweet one. Had long hard wonderful conversations with Jade. Lived this beautiful life. I hope you've been living too. Love you all a lot.
Misha Lynn Moon
