Reading the poetry of someone whom I consider to be a talented writer is both humbling and inspiring. I have the urge to write, but the inescapable knowledge that what gems may emerge from my pen do so mostly by luck. Mostly I have the urge to read more. I think, oh! I could do that! I have done that! But not in such quantity or with such quality, and never with such sparkling brilliance.
Reading good poetry teases the edges of my skull, inflates it, renders it see-through. It’s rather the same with art. I know I have talent, I know I’m good. But I’m not DRIVEN TO CREATE. Well, sometimes I am, but it’s depressingly infrequent. I am usually content with being a lover of beauty, with the ability to see and know when something I read or appreciate is truly beautiful. Inner envy is eclipsed by awe. Motivation slides aside.
Something Beautiful I Saw Today: A stunning handmade starburst quilt by carrieb
I’m a little pre-occupied with the phenomenon of aging these days. Hair comes in where it’s not wanted and falls from where it is. I suddenly see wrinkles in places I’ve never noticed them before. Were they there yesterday or did they spring full blown from my forehead just today, tiny armored Athenas? Two sets of short wrinkles lie like extra eyebrows high above my eyes…it would seem I am perpetually surprised or sarcastic. Every small twinge and catch breeds panic and resignation. I can feel the years clicking down my bones.
Yeah, What He/She/They Said: Sorry, Everybody
How long does it take us to learn not to lie? How long was it before we learned telling tales was unattractive behavior? Do we ever stop or do we merely learn to change them into justification, self-preservation and gossip? Parenting is the hardest job I’ve ever had. I often feel as if I’ve walked into the classroom expecting a lecture and find out instead it’s the day of finals. My ability to bullshit my way through essay questions and term papers will not be of much help. Is there a correspondence course available or is it all strictly lab work?