POET | PLAYWRIGHT | TEACHING ARTIST
It is always stupid for me to write about or talk about process. In fact, I am convinced it’s a form of self-sabotage. It’s the final step of a creative project, where I cut myself off at the knees and go back to a safe place. It’s when the oxpecker shows up and pecks me…
(So: not a diary entry today) I have been listening to interviews on the Penteract podcast, and reading essays about visual poetry and began thinking that perhaps I am not working toward visual poetry – as I’m hearing it “defined” in these places: as necessarily disassociating linguistic symbols from their semantic meanings. That isn’t my…
The soft light of the alarm clock begins to glow at 4:10 and intensifies so I wake before the recording of the blackbirds begins. I’m grateful for this cheap, but fancy clock. It’s a gentle way to begin the day. The morning ritual is set. Bathroom to stairwell, to alarm panel, to sliding glass door,…
I am in such a rush for this school year to be over I am counting down the weeks in small, manageable units. This begins week 2 of 5 before Easter break. Then 5 again before the summer. At the same time, I hate that I am willing the weeks to roll by quickly. I’m…
The sun is out, but there is a cold and very strong wind rattling the windows. Leonard is barking at the voice coming through E.’s telephone. I’ve been wondering how he knows it is a live person on the other end and not a recording. He’s never barked at my phone when I’ve had podcasts…