The last writer is on a plane back to where he or she came from. The last reading, the last reception, the last horrified parent walking out at an instance of the f-word. The last manuscript consultation, the last workshop, the last coffee run. Writers at Work is over, and I am a little sad, a lot exhausted, pretty over-stimulated, and I am probably feeling some other emotions in the mix, as well.
I had to have a brief cry about five or six times yesterday. I am a crier, but that's a lot even for me. Why, I really can't say. I slept in the afternoon. The historian made sure the swamp cooler was working (even though we really need to get a new one, which entails research about getting the right kind, etc., which takes time, time I didn't have because it was hot and I really needed a nap), a gesture of loving kindness that brought about one of the brief cries. When we went to the farmer's market in the morning, which usually is a big high for me, it just seemed like so. many. people. that we kind of had to move right on out of there.
Anyway, last night, after we came home from our movie (Once, which I highly, highly recommend--a straightforward music-based movie, and it is wonderful music, that is just the kind of thing we all need sometimes), I went straight to this laptop and started composing a poem. That's a good feeling at any time. I was listening to the new Feist (again, highly recommended) and then to Martina Topley-Bird and then to Massive Attack. Dear reader, I composed straight through three cds. That's how good it was to write a poem. I intend for this to be the beginning of a stretch of creativity the likes of which the megastore hasn't seen in quite some time. If it involves some random crying, so be it.