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January 2011
The Process
For me, poetry strikes like lightning. Fiction, on the other hand, is pure toil. Sometimes, it's the toil of really great sex. Sometimes it's more like playing solo tag with Dick Butkus wearing a Minnesota Vikings uniform and covered in hot dogs. Sometimes you just get Dick, you know?Archives
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She's Worse than Helen...suddenly missing Wow Texan in Transit been there... done that Template for Boredom My (ongoing) Weakness for Surveys My Weakness for Surveys top ten downtown... Categories
ExpositionJournal Poetry Listening To
Moroccan Spirit, Paris Combo, Peggy Lee, Jacques Dutronc, White Stripes, Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire, Cake, Nick Drake, Black Eyed Peas, Azam Ali, The Kinks, The Beatles, Old Blind Dogs, The Vines, Francoise Hardy
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« me too | Main | dial tone » July 02, 2003
A Realization I used to talk to my mom about leaving, always about going somewhere else or I asked her once if she would apply for an Italian passport, she could, and if she could I probably could. I had planned on going to Italy for a summer or a year and working. I probably would have stayed for good. She said No. I realized after she passed away (but never before) that she didn't say Posted by rowan at July 02, 2003 05:15 PM |
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