Including random internet picture, too!
Hey, know what? I have never, ever met a boring insomniac, not one. Ever.
I know that international poets are often the victims of persecution -- of death threats and death sentences, or censorship, of forced exile. And then, among the healthy and privileged writers in my own country -- the ones who, to paraphrase Primo Levi, live “safe in their warm houses” -- the world-rotting, Hollywood idea of a production team as co-authors has taken root, so that everything is written and rewritten and rewritten until it turns more uniform, until it loses its jagged edges and its radioactivity and its electricity. I have the fantasy that maybe things are better in, say, Europe, where a book is a book, and nobody’s scrambling to define it as poetry or prose, memoir or fiction, experimental or not.
Elizabeth Bachner, Link
Laws and commandments guide whomever they're supposed to guide. I could probably use some kind of guidance right now, actually. I'm sinking and pulpy like a paper anchor. I'm sitting on a nest of hot white eggs, waiting for them to hatch, waiting for the fruits of my labor to peer around and cry because it's finally summer. I'm looking for something to hold on to, maybe a doctrine, scripture, amendment, maybe a footnote, gospel, article. Right now, I can fold up the Constitution and use it as a bookmark in the Bible, carrying it around like the pound of messy matter that it is, which blurs in and out of focus. I can get down to business and touch my toes back to the ground. There's always an extremely tempting urge to jump into one of those clock puddles and spread time all over the ground to disperse it a bit but, knowing me, I don't think that compulsion will ever change.
Caroline Lazar, Link