Alcoholism isn't the only progressive disease I manage, or that manages me.
My illness is progressive, and it feeds on fear first, then isolation. If I want to minimize that fear, then I need to maximize our fellowship.
My oldest son, William Rockaway Boger, died on July 23rd, 2023. He was celebrating his 30th birthday. Our relationship was strained. We often went weeks, and sometimes months, without talking, because I would not speak to him...
I'm working again as much as I can, both prose and poetry. This is my second "finished" piece, and I have a few more in the notebooks.
An old friend is a published poet, and sometimes his work inspires my work.
"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."
Today, I am at peace with conversation, respectful argument, and a radical honesty of expression. Today, I am going to give my knowledge, so that I can receive your knowledge.
I sometimes lie to myself that I am a poet, deep-down and hidden, and that someday my talent will spontaneously blossom, like "the Lilly Inextinguishable," and I will compose a prize-winning collection of first drafts.
This is how enthusiasm dies, how I kill hobbies before they start, why I never hire teachers or ask for help. I get-by making false promises to myself, the illusion of intent.
I don't want to live inside a feeling of pressure, of being driven by events, so today I am harnessing peace and optimism. I am shifting from "have-to" to "want-to."