And it's good timing because just in the last few days I've finally figured out how to get out from under the constant anxiety that makes it very difficult for me to do anything, either creative or work-related.
First, I began to think that if I was to ever do any writing again, or even reading for that matter, I would have to do it first thing in the morning before the day's quota of anxiety builds up. So no matter how many pressing things I had to get done for the open mic in a given day, I instead first began to do some serious reading to wake my brain up and then some actual writing. Well this lasted for a couple days, because I was using up so much of the day reading and writing that I got further and further behind on my work. By the third day, I was panicking.
So then it occurred to me that I should try doing my organizing work first thing in the day instead of my fun stuff, before the anxiety sets in. And I was shocked at the results. During the first day I tried it l accomplished about fifteen things that I was very behind on in a matter of only a few hours. With hardly any anxiety. (This versus the near-revulsion to even looking at the computer that I had developed and had been having to try to overcome each day.) So I've been doing it this way for a few days now, but not getting any reading or writing done! Although I could have. It's just been so thrilling to not be burdened by anxiety all afternoon that I've not wanted to do anything but enjoy the feeling.
Now, as a result of the inspiration Shelly has given me, I have another big kafuffle to unravel. I have to decide how seriously to take my poetry, and what to do with it. If some of it (one poem, to be exact) is as good as Shelly says it is, then I guess I should try to get it published. Which is the opposite direction to the one I've been heading in lately. Somewhere along the way I decided to just start posting all my poems, including my good ones, on the internet, and so forgo ever having them published in a journal. (They won't take them if they've been on the internet.) Then at least a few friends could read them. To this point, I've not been able to see any good reason for journal publication, especially at my age. I don't have thirty or fourty years left to first get a PhD, then wait a decade or more to get published in respected journals just so a respected publisher would be willing to put out a book of my poems, followed by other books, none of which would be read anyway, although just having them to my credit still might earn me "respect". I don't know. But if I do have one valuable little nugget, which might be appreciated by those who appreciate, should I then try to turn this whole train around, huffing and puffing at it with my 66-year-old carcass. Sure. I guess so. These last few years of socializing seem to have changed me from a pessimist into an optimist. If that's possible. So, I'm going to start reworking old poems and writing new ones. Why not?
And tomorrow, at the world's first Guerilla Poetry reading that's not out on a street but inside a library, with the library's permission, no - with the library's whole-hearted backing, I'm going to read my poem. That's a start.
London Central Library, 2 pm.