Earlier tonight I began reading Hisham Matar’s novel, In the Country of Men. In it, the narrator’s mother speaks of grief, a topic I have been reading about, experiencing, and thinking of quite a bit lately.
“Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo.”Spoken by the character Najwa in Hisham Matar’s In the Country of Men
A thought occurred to me the other day. I had heard (or possibly read) the phrase “it’s what you do that matters” which is similar to the phrase “actions speak louder than words.” I thought about this for some time, and I began to wonder what if saying something took as much effort as doing something. What would the world look like if it took as much effort to speak as it did to perform an activity?
Continue reading “Thurs. 22 April 2021; 03:14 – Bed”
Another night of restlessness.
I wrote a poem while lying in bed. I think it’s too sentimental, and therefore too amateur. Is sentimentality amateur? If so then there’s no hope for me. I am far too sentimental.
Yet I have problems with sentimentality. At least overly sentimental writing.
— (read on after the poem for an unintentional book review) —
Continue reading “15 April 2021 (feat. The Blanket poem)”
This morning I woke up and went into Trenton, to the CURE Arena, which for the past several months has been operating as a mass-vaccination site. I received my first of two Moderna COVID-19 vaccinations. I’m glad to have gotten the injection, despite any potential unknown health risks. (I figure Europe seems satisfied with them, even with the limited testing, and at this point the current risk of the virus outweighs the potential risks).
Continue reading “Tues. 31 Mar. 2021; 12:31 – Sitting room, couch”