eef.
last night i went to see Joanna Newsom at the Sanfransisco Bathhouse downtown. it was so so beautiful, i feel like a kid, i am completely inspired. its been a while since ive been blown away by a performance, especially such a low key one: a girl on a stage with a harp her size and a voice. it was completely different from listening to her
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i relate. when i slip into a crevice and it gets dark, so many times i sit in it, knowing how to get out, but lacking motivation to pick up any known tools. and i still stress about being in the crevice and sigh that i want out. . . until one day i decide i've had enough and pick up my tools again.
when i'm out, i rarely understand why i wasted so much time in the crevice. . . all i can think is that something was happening within me that i couldn't see at the time. . .something that needed to happen. the growth within the cocoon, in spite of me, perhaps.
however, i find myself lately preferring the silent hum of thoughtlessness to the overthinking wallow i used to do. probably because i have to think so much for class. now it's the thousand pound pen--the pen that has answers i don't usually want to hear.
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meaning, she's the same age as us.
i feel so behind.
at least poets aren't supposedly at their peak until middle age. if i wanted to be a rockstar or a model, i'd be a has-been already. or a never-was. ack.
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i am glad for you.
i am queen isolator. it has been suggested that i can call and say i'm isolating and then hang up. i like that. we aren't crazy, we are aware.
i love you writting.
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