In my writing meeting last night, the reiteration was clearer: I think in poetry, then translate to prose. This is not me saying, “How grand my little life must be, that I am cursed-blessed with this boon-bane.” This is me saying, “That’s fucked up.” And still, it’s me. I have to come to terms with that.
So now I am writing a scene for the project in poetry.
Another discovery, by she who thought she knew all about coffee: cappuccino is stronger than latte. Of course it is. Why did I forget this? Perhaps because “hazelnut latte” rolls off the tongue, while “hazelnut cappuccino” turns into a short story. Again, poetry infringes on my memory of things.
It’s not easy or hard: it just is this way. I say it’s fucked up because it is when it comes out of my head, eyes, or mouth and suddenly it is not making sense in the actual, grammatical way. It is not parsing into a sentence. It is dripping like warm honey, or oil on a driveway. These things make more sense to me than numbers or structures ever did.
Today’s bud vase contains three ivory freesia buds, a pink-orange tulip, bluebells, and red-tipped sparaxis. Wade Davis talked about his new book, Light at the Edge of the World, on NPR this morning, and made me realize that I am again reading four books at once. Sometimes, when I don’t catch myself in time, I am living four lives at once: one for the money, two for the gold, three to get ready now go squid go!
It’s never funnier than when I’m trying to be so serious.