But that world outside my office is about as stunningly terrible as I can ever remember it being. Some days it seems like an evil spirit has put a spell on everyone--guns, war, anger...and I have been AVOIDING the news (well, for me, anyway. I still read the papers; I just cut myself off from cable TV reportage).
It does feel like I live in a country under attack, and the tragic thing is that the attackers are its own citizens.
I have moments of gratitude and clarity: I'm generally impressed with how right President Biden gets most things, and how steady he's been during the war in Ukraine. I'm wildly impressed by the Ukrainian people, fighting off an unprovoked attack on their homeland. And I'm grateful, as always, that the joint forces of my family have managed to secure this piece of land halfway between suburubia and ex-urbia where I get to sit and write.
And sometimes that's all you CAN do: write. Try to put your best out there and hope that an editor or two pick up on it and someone gets to read what you've written. The poetry group I participate in online competes in the IBPC monthly best poems contests, and I had a poem about Grand Central Station win recently. That was a real up because I love Grand Central Station. It's what I love about this country when things work right: public grandeur. I loved thinking about it when I was writing the poem, loved remembering what I grew up with--and hoping things could be that good again. There's nothing wrong with hope, you know.
So, I'll let you know (boy, will I EVER) when The After Times gets nearer to press. Meanwhile, see ya 'round the Web.