Pale horse, Pale rider
His soul stretched tight
Across the skies
That fade behind a city block
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four & five & six o'clock
That's my favorite bit of it, for now. IV of Preludes. (I think I'm being clever and mysterious by omitting T.S. Eliot's name). He was born one hundred years before me.
I'm reading Little Fugue by Robert Anderson and I think that it's amazing. Full of hidden meaning and lots of inside information that I don't understand, and some that I do because I live in New York City and have read books. Maybe one day I can be something close to Anderson. Or Sylvia Plath, but I'm not sure how I feel about that yet. Or Ted Hughes, because I like him thus far and maybe if I was male I'd be something like him. But what do I know? (I think humility will make you think I'm intelligent). People might call me Mullen but not necessarily; nothing is certain. (That's me trying to be open-minded). I've made pages and pages, three but they're burgeoning, of vocabulary words straight from the mouth of the lion, the chapters of the novel, and they make me feel worthy. Worthy? Of what? (I'm not sure what I'm trying to do here).
It's possible that I've found a part of myself this summer. Not this part here, typing, but a part nonetheless. You can disregard the "nonetheless" if you'd like. It might just be someone else I've found, though. I can't tell. She, he feels good but almost too good for me. Anyway, there was an ant on my wrist until I brushed it off.
Across the skies
That fade behind a city block
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four & five & six o'clock
That's my favorite bit of it, for now. IV of Preludes. (I think I'm being clever and mysterious by omitting T.S. Eliot's name). He was born one hundred years before me.
I'm reading Little Fugue by Robert Anderson and I think that it's amazing. Full of hidden meaning and lots of inside information that I don't understand, and some that I do because I live in New York City and have read books. Maybe one day I can be something close to Anderson. Or Sylvia Plath, but I'm not sure how I feel about that yet. Or Ted Hughes, because I like him thus far and maybe if I was male I'd be something like him. But what do I know? (I think humility will make you think I'm intelligent). People might call me Mullen but not necessarily; nothing is certain. (That's me trying to be open-minded). I've made pages and pages, three but they're burgeoning, of vocabulary words straight from the mouth of the lion, the chapters of the novel, and they make me feel worthy. Worthy? Of what? (I'm not sure what I'm trying to do here).
It's possible that I've found a part of myself this summer. Not this part here, typing, but a part nonetheless. You can disregard the "nonetheless" if you'd like. It might just be someone else I've found, though. I can't tell. She, he feels good but almost too good for me. Anyway, there was an ant on my wrist until I brushed it off.