Purpose or Pointlessness

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Today, I’m at the supreme siren of all coffee chains, pleased to have a scalding monster of house blend holding my status as an approved wi-fi user. The road has been a bit kinder in the last couple days, as Iowa has proved its welcoming reputation. With the help of a dear friend, I’ve found myself lodging in downtown Iowa City hosted by a lovely couple, two cats, and a very funny dog.

Driving has been difficult, as people request rides few and far between. I managed to come up with my car payment on time, and a few book orders came through over the weekend, so it looks as though there should be no hiccups in getting NYMPH printed on time as long as I bust some serious ass in the next two days. As always, accumulating the bare minimum of capital gets in the way of focusing on my chosen work.The last few days have me overwhelmed by the notion that my goals are naive and unachievable. No one really reads poetry, and of those who do, very few of them know of or care about this lofty operation. I keep finding poets online concerned more with message or lament than craft. Does anyone read to find the magic in words or do they simply crave affirmation for their borrowed attitudes? How can I get to those concerned with the art of writing and convince them this press is legitimate? Will it always be uphill?

I’ve found something in this life that causes me to feel a genuine purpose and fulfillment. It doesn’t matter that I’ve had to give up basic comforts to keep things going. What matters is that they keep going. A friend asked me recently after all the debt and desperation I’ve caused myself, how far down I would have to be to consider myself at rock bottom. My answer was and is, when I give up.

Keep Doing What You Love,

FLF