Darjeeling

In the water unfurling

at 100 degrees

the tea leaves grow flaccid

and release a scent Asiatic

that cries of peasant farmers,

toils, blood, and trade

sipped mercilessly from china Limousin

in gardens Babylonian.

10:50 PM

Sometimes I feel ridiculous. It's like my head is full of the brightest ideas but I don't actually ever write them or put them down onto any tangible substance. I can be the greatest thing in my mind but it's not yet the time that I (or anybody else, for that matter) will see any of that in a productive way. I don't mean to sound down or depressed because I'm not; it's just funny to me. When I try to think of things I've written I draw a blank. It's like I've never actually written anything. And yet when I search the folders on my computer of writing I find what appears to be vast amounts of text and prose, just nothing completed or committed to. And then I think that this microscopic bit of work pales in comparison to anything else any writer I would care of would have had lying around. I'm almost terrified to call myself a writer - it just sounds so self-conscious and assuming. One who writes. I guess what I mean is that it implies talent, and until I'm sure that I have some I'm not going to want to go around branding myself as somebody with merit. I'm not ready to put myself into a category of writers (I mean Plath, Hollinghurst, and Austen were writers) until somebody else does it for me. I'm not sure how to appraise my own writing - when I did visual arts it was easy; the difference between good and bad was right there in front of one's eyes. Music performed is the same and the ear attests to the quality of a performance or composition. Acting, dancing, etc... But writing! Writing appears as black shapes on a page and I need to sift through it with my brain and my heart before I can hope to say if it's even satisfactory.

A friend of mine gave me some poetry today that she wrote years ago about England and the changing of the seasons. She thought I would be interested because as weird as it sounds in a month I'll be living there. Maybe when I get to Falmouth and I'm forced to sit down and scrawl words onto a page I'll be able to work through something until it satisfies me. I really just cannot wait.