Friday, July 20, 2018
I was feeling pretty chuffed to begin my writing retreat with a project in mind. The project would involve research (Rilke's Book of Hours and a miniature reproduction of a lavishly illustrated medieval Book of Hours), subject specific language, and a flexible way of churning up material.
How did I then slip the leash of my own assignment on the first day of writing? Did it have something to do with my unnatural state of mind, a kind of jet-lag stupor? Does sleeplessness have its own bonus--weird jumps and connections and a sense of floating away from the usual world? (I don't recommend it.)
Although I've done some of the reading and stolen some of the language of my original project, I've written 6 good poems and 2 bad poems towards a project I still don't fully understand. Here are a few of the titles:
"The Ghost of My Good Intentions Bears Fruit"
"Minor Saints are Written in Black"
"Dead to Me"
The project has something to do with ghosts but not just in the regular way. I'm still doodling around to figure out how to define ghost--that which is insubstantial, that which is not present, that which is not fully realized, actual spirits, haints?
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
- labelling everything in the house
- Aunt M and her bundle of hair
- "It's all around us"
- lump sum
- like a slack drumhead