My car's windshield got dinged by a pebble some time ago. It started as a small crack on the passenger side. Daily, I think, it's grown a millimeter or two since the incident. Today it had a growth spurt--I think the cold outside air and the warm inside defrosting air pushed the windshield to the brink. Now the car has a crack across the entire width of the windshield. It was somewhat embarassing to be driving around Bellingham with a shoddy-looking car. And the sad thing is, it's fairly new! Luckily my insurance is taking care of some of it. But the gradual growth of the crack gave me something to obsess over.
Somehow, this all made me think of poetry. I really have no explanation as to how my mind works these days. My writing's been really episodic of late. I'll write a bit, then move on. Write a bit, move on, etc.. I do believe that it's been hard for me to buckle down with my writing because of this commuter lifestyle I'm leading at the moment. Here's the thing . . . I tend to think of myself as a "project" writer. When I have a project in mind, I hang on to that project. Some may call that writing from obsession. . . I suppose I do obsess.
But when I'm commuting every other day through traffic, much of my non-travel days are spent thinking of travel, gearing up for travel, preparing my classes which I travel to . . . Additionally, it's not easy traffic (though Meredith's got it worse). There are lots of nutso drivers traveling the strip of I-5 we negotiate. On top of that, the weather's far from ideal for driving in the dark. And yes, it's dark when I leave my house and it's dark when I get home.
Needless to say, I haven't found a place of reverie that I enjoyed the years when I was living closer to my place of employment. My preoccupations have been consumed by gas prices, 60 mile drives, the cars around me.
In other news, I have been writing, though not as spontaneously as I once have. It'll come. It'll expand. It'll crack.