one more river

I spend too much of my time thinking. That's why I'm still awake. I'm not always sure what I'm thinking about.

I'm terrified of the future; I keep trying to postpone it. I'm moving back to Provo on Monday, to live in a house. I'm too little for a house. Let me repeat: there's not enough of me yet for a house. Even if there will be a study.

Please come visit me. sej

Gulp

In an act of impulsiveness completely uncharacteristic of my family, my mother has decided to pilgrimage on down to southern Utah for a few days of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. oy, the cousins. I'll be back Thursday.
A vendredi, eg

Poetry in poetry

Hey gang. It's late. I'm tired. And for some ridiculous reason, I can't see any new blog posts. Grrr. But I'll keep writing, just for you.

I've spent a lot of time considering how art influences and acts as a catalyst for more and new art. This is purely selfish in motivation, since my best work often comes from considering another piece of artwork, usually non-literary. There will be more blogging done on this subject in the very near future. For tonight I want to leave you with this quote from a novel. The "she" is an artist trying to "see" the art in the people she is portraying. Enjoy. And comment.

"It was a miracle when you looked hard enough, when you really sought out information, there was so much to see, even in a person's tiniest gesture. There was so much feeling, such a dazzling array of things that your words, at least [her] words, could never say. There were thousands of images and memories and ideas, if you just let them come. There was the whole history of human experience somewhere contained in each of the bits, the most universal in the most specific, if you could only see it. It was like poetry. Well, she had never found poetry in poetry, to be truthful. But she imagined this was what poetry might be like for someone who understood it and loved it.
"Either it was like poetry or it was like getting really, really stoned."

Almost

Has it really been a month since I last blogged? I suppose so. Over a month. I stopped checking off the days on my calendar, well, when I last had a calendar to check the days off. Maybe I need to buy a planner or something so that I will recognize the days again.

I haven't wanted to write. There is too much that is too much right now that writing seems inadequate. And then I read a story from Kapka or a poem by K and I realize I'm doing more injury to myself than necessary. But what to write about? There are things on my list: an article for Clark Memorandum (very sterile and simple, but still); a personal essay for Gideon about London (the one I wrote in London was crap and Gideon called me on it); journal entries, poetry, letters. I need to write (platonic) love letters to the world at large and everyone individually.

I keep thinking of poem 5 from Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I probably just botched the title, but it's in the Norton anthologies. Go look it up. I want to use it as an excuse--that writing is always inadequate. But this time I know it's not true. This time writing is the only answer.

I love you (you is plural).