And that is what art is for.
It’s a place to put the things you can’t bear to live with, because you cannot bear to live without them.
Am taking a small break from writing an essay and workshopping stories. I just realised that I have a hell of a lot to read this week, if I’m going to stay on top of everything. Bah.
I swear, I think I’m forgetting something… don’t you hate that?
The darling cats knocked my glasses off the bedside table the night before last. Turns out I have a massive scratch on the right lens now, so that I have to replace it. I suppose it serves me right for leaving the damn things on the top of the table.
Was on my way to class this am and as I was getting off the bus I saw near one of the garbage cans at the exchange, four little baby rabbits fighting over a piece of apple. They were so cute, and so preoccupied that I was able to pet them.
My morning proff was wearing a tie that was too short. I spent half the class speculating on whether it was a gift that he was wearing merely to mollify the gift-giver. It was green with white polka dots.
I don’t think I woke up properly today, because my brain’s been doing fabulous back-flips and I can’t seem to stay on any one subject for more than a few minutes. This is why I’m taking a little break. There’s no use forcing the issue. If I try I won’t get anything done.
I’ve been reading “Negotiating With the Dead: A Writer on Writing” by Margaret Atwood. I’ve been seriously amused by the book, so it should be relatively easy to finish four pages on it. Here’s a quote, from page 38:
“Where does it come from, this notion that the writing self – the self that comes to be thought of as ‘the author’ – is not the same as the one who does the living? Where do writers pick up the idea that they have an alien of some sort living in their brain? Surely it wasn’t Charles Dickens the fun-loving paterfamilias, keen deviser of Christmas games for his kiddies, who caused poor Little Nell to die an early death? He cried the whole time his pen-wielding hand was pitilessly doing her in. No, it was the necrophiliac he carried around inside himself, like a tapeworm made of ink.”
all that is glorious about Portugal
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