Teach myself to wait. Teach myself to talk about what’s on the news. Teach myself to be less raw, to chafe less at memories. Teach myself to do nothing, say nothing. Teach myself not to want you to give me that look. Teach myself to finish what I’ve started. Teach myself to clean the house…
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I’m procrastinating. By doing stuff like this: Dorm Room. I read my advice to myself (previous post) to the veteran writers in the workshop group I wrote it in last week and SGT Linsey Siu sent me this in a message afterwards. A list of quotes by very accomplished people (who are extraordinarily wise). My favorite…
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Going on a trip. Seeing beautiful people and going to a poetry workshop. Sometimes being in a new place makes me nervous, sometimes being around people who are more accomplished than I am makes me forget my gratitude for all the beauty I have, sometimes my fears keep me rooted in a spot–literally and creatively.…
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Last weekend we watched a documentary about how the universe is expanding, and some scientists believe that it’s expanding without curvature–expanding infinitely, never to touch back upon itself. What this means (according to this documentary) is that every eventuality possible in your life has occurred–every choice you’ve made, the alternate choice was made by some…
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I’ve been reading this collection of Adrienne Rich’s essays on motherhood for months now. I pick it up, read a few pages, my worldview shifts, I put it down and look at everything through a different lens. It’s a battered, flagged, highlighted, marked up book; I have pages of notes inside it. And this, from…
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to speak to the spark in the people who made today beautiful, to thank you for your laughter, your honesty, for the things you do for me and the things you do for each other that free my hands to do for the new people who arrive or the ones who are struggling a little…
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This morning, Shark said, if Monday were a person, he’d be the most annoying person. It seemed like the start of a poem, so we pressed on–if Monday were a person, what would he be like? Shark’s poem: He’d smell like rotten eggs and wear formal clothes (but not a tuxedo) and he’d listen to…
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