Communities
Communities
Tonight I stumbled across a former community, and it took my breath away. Do you ever see life as it could be, flash before your eyes, and shudder or smile? I shuddered, with the thought that I have let my mind get lazy, that things I used to treasure so much have been taken hostage by idle pasttimes.
A professor of the year gave a poetry reading tonight. I remember her telling me that I'd make a good teacher. I chose not to. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision. And yet words seem so much sweeter when I get to sit in a hot room with others who care as much as I do, and not because I have to.
A re-connecting, after five years with maybe a hit or miss poetry reading encounter in there somewhere, and sporadic email correspondance over 4 lines of poetry. It reminded me that there really are filaments, that Jack Burden really was real, and not a figment of my literary imagination (although, technically a figment of someone else's), and that I have come along way.
And yet, there's still so much more to learn.
The drive home, zier to stein to stump, a line from a poem and personal reality, made me think of Girl Scouts, and the community I had from 2nd-6th grade. I sometimes wonder about it all, who I'd be if these communities didn't exist in my life. I wonder what I'd be like if I were still in them.
I think I miss poetry. I'm not sure if it's the line breaks, the way my own words roll off my tongue and back out into the universe where I snatched them from, or if it's my fellow writer's. Maybe a combination of them all.
Stop staring in the rearview mirror.
Unless you're on the couer d'alene reservation and your car only goes in reverse.
Forks in the road, Frost's cliche, and all of that is swimming around in my mind.
Maybe I'm back in Yak to remember things, things I had forgotten about myself. Maybe I need to 'step up, read & write,' as Peters told me so long ago.
Terry wrote: "I pocket your words like small stones, shiny and private, I carry them." I wondered how it is she has so gracefully plucked the words right out of the universe.
Maybe I just miss the idea of it all. It could just be nostalgia brought on by bunk beds and mermaids.This could be one more thing adding stress to my life, or maybe it'll focus me more. I don't want going back to English to be a choice.
But maybe it is? Or it might just need to be outside of a 9-5.
P.S. Dan, if you read this, my myspace is a much better representation of my blogging. Go ahead, be a creepy myspacer! :)
Tonight I stumbled across a former community, and it took my breath away. Do you ever see life as it could be, flash before your eyes, and shudder or smile? I shuddered, with the thought that I have let my mind get lazy, that things I used to treasure so much have been taken hostage by idle pasttimes.
A professor of the year gave a poetry reading tonight. I remember her telling me that I'd make a good teacher. I chose not to. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision. And yet words seem so much sweeter when I get to sit in a hot room with others who care as much as I do, and not because I have to.
A re-connecting, after five years with maybe a hit or miss poetry reading encounter in there somewhere, and sporadic email correspondance over 4 lines of poetry. It reminded me that there really are filaments, that Jack Burden really was real, and not a figment of my literary imagination (although, technically a figment of someone else's), and that I have come along way.
And yet, there's still so much more to learn.
The drive home, zier to stein to stump, a line from a poem and personal reality, made me think of Girl Scouts, and the community I had from 2nd-6th grade. I sometimes wonder about it all, who I'd be if these communities didn't exist in my life. I wonder what I'd be like if I were still in them.
I think I miss poetry. I'm not sure if it's the line breaks, the way my own words roll off my tongue and back out into the universe where I snatched them from, or if it's my fellow writer's. Maybe a combination of them all.
Stop staring in the rearview mirror.
Unless you're on the couer d'alene reservation and your car only goes in reverse.
Forks in the road, Frost's cliche, and all of that is swimming around in my mind.
Maybe I'm back in Yak to remember things, things I had forgotten about myself. Maybe I need to 'step up, read & write,' as Peters told me so long ago.
Terry wrote: "I pocket your words like small stones, shiny and private, I carry them." I wondered how it is she has so gracefully plucked the words right out of the universe.
Maybe I just miss the idea of it all. It could just be nostalgia brought on by bunk beds and mermaids.This could be one more thing adding stress to my life, or maybe it'll focus me more. I don't want going back to English to be a choice.
But maybe it is? Or it might just need to be outside of a 9-5.
P.S. Dan, if you read this, my myspace is a much better representation of my blogging. Go ahead, be a creepy myspacer! :)