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)”
“We entered the unexpected silence trees create by the sea. The changed light. The moistness in the air becoming slightly more material.”Hisham Matar, The Return, Pg. 26
I’m currently making my way through Hisham Matar’s memoir The Return. When I came across this passage I was struck by how poetic it was, and by how simply Matar was able to construct a space in my mind, a sensation of a place, with so few words. It reminded me of the concept of world building I had learned last year.
Continue reading “A Bit of World Building in Hisham Matar’s The Return”
Shea is curled tightly at my feet, as she has been for the past several hours while I’ve been reading through The Grapes of Wrath accompanied by Working Days.
Continue reading “Wed. 17 Mar. 2021; 22:52, Sitting Room, Couch”
I have no one to talk to but the page. And my mind seems hell-bent against my doing so…
And everything I want to write about is a secret.