I was sorting through my old Firefox bookmarks and found this from like five years ago. I am wondering how it resonated with me at the time, because I don’t remember coming across it, but reading it now, man. I feel this, and agree with this, and believe this, at this age more than ever. And–surely… Continue reading I choose as is.
But there is a profound difference between what a writer does alone in her room — the honing, crafting, shaping, transcending of her own personal history in order to carve out a story that is ultimately a public performance — and the human need to quietly share in the most intimate possible way, to confess,… Continue reading My goal is not to make myself transparent
closed; no poetry today,the poet is too sick and sadand the universe is making her head spin unless of course the dizziness is a direct result of looking too longat the spinning globe of future problems closed; can’t create today,thought too much about how useless a talent this is in the long run, thought about the people she lovedwho died… Continue reading Wingless
Going to cheat a little bit—this isn’t a letter I wrote, but a letter I like to imagine was written for me. It’s something I keep going back to. Last year. This year. Probably forever. … Here, where I am surrounded by an enormous landscape, which the winds move across as they come from the… Continue reading Letters To You, #4
My goofiest-sounding secret is that I also believe in magic. Sometimes I call it God and sometimes I call it light, and I believe in it because every now and then I read a really good book or hear a really good song or have a really good conversation with a friend and they seem… Continue reading Happy and sad and everything else