Here I sit doing another blog post, as predicted. My hand hurts. I slept on it wrong last night and it is crabby and swollen inside the cast today. Except for the bugs scurrying about their business, and of course the Invisible Theatre troupe, there is no other life in the house. It's not that M. Lee and I talk much during the day. I pass his door on my way to the kitchen. I see the back of his head but he is there and now he is not. For a month. This is supposed to be my 30 days of wild creative abandon but mostly I just feel lonely. What a simp. I would blow a residency in this mood. Interesting that Poets.org is accepting submissions beginning today for the Walt Whitman Award. It includes a 30 day residency at the Vermont Studio Center.
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