Look, a butterfly. Did you make a wish?
You don’t wish on butterflies.
You do so. Did you make one?
It doesn’t count.
Lately I’ve been thinking DEEPLY AND ATTENTIVELY about writing more on this fucking thing… but the truth is, I don’t give a shit. My life is an exercise in reflection and generally being satisfied (with a slight twinge of guilt). unemployment guilt. This leaves little space for blogging. I think functionality is something to be proud of– so I am not too upset about my apparent lack of earthly utility. or blogging utility. blogging utility is its own little island kingdom of jokes.
In other news, I finally saw louise gluck read her damn poetry the other night and it was like watching a tornado look itself in the eye where the most dangerous pieces of life’s bullshit get sucked and then spit out. Her voice was soothing. which was weird. She has killingly accepted how insane and terrifying and accurate she is/has become/
This is crazy foods for thoughts for a 22 year old who aims to study and mimic her tendencies and gestures as a writer. not mimic, so much as practice, so much as honor with a practice that is my own style of constructing.
hers is evil and sexless and at the same time, wholly rooted in femininity and destruction. personal, but completely scientific in its exploration of the personal. I aim to achieve this, also. To make emotionality a scientific experiment. compassionately.
Thats enough broken sentences for the evening.