Born and raised most of my childhood in the Mexican border town of Matamoros, Tamaulipas. Have been writing poetry most of my life for some still-undiscovered reason.
I look around my home office: A chipped mug that I refuse to trash, board games stacked about the floor, unfolded laundry, papers with drawings from one of my daughters, excercise equipment. It matches my mindset: health worries, childrens' issues, past-due work, a master's degree I just started, unfinished poems, social stuff, money stuff. The hours do not stretch, and I prioritize naps. I read somewhere that procrastination is a psychological defense mechanism, but, against what?
But, it all never gets to be too much. Maybe it IS a generational thing: Gen-Xers just don't fuzz much about anything, it is not in our nature. Or maybe it is just me. Once upon a time I read a quote by <googles> Calvin Coolige "If you see ten troubles coming down the road, you can be sure that nine will run into the ditch before they reach you", and it inadvertently became my life's motto. Ah! But there is always that one, and, which one will it be?
Today, I posted two poems about strangers, one definitely more mundane than the other. I have never read Stranger in a Strange Land (yet another item in my to-do list), but the title inspired poem #56; It is the way I imagine the book to be. #12 attempts to justify both over-protective parents and some of my past sins.
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