21 September 2013
11:47 PM


Things I did today:

  • Cleaned my office; swept and mopped the floors
  • Assembled boxes that would hide a lot of my clutter
  • Studied Emily Dickinson’s The Brain, within its Groove; took notes all afternoon
  • Wrote a letter to S. who is currently in India; looked and marveled at the photos he took
  • Had coffee with my sisters and father
  • Read more letters from people who have recently lost someone in their lives

Things running through my mind:

  • I wondered if I would be happy if I was dust. I wondered if the dust itself is happy, being what it is. I wondered if it feels powerful, to be everywhere at once, or if it’s sad to be so scattered, to not have a form, to not be in one place.
  • Why am I unable to look at my mess in the face? Why must I be so unsettled about it? Why does it make me feel like I have accomplished nothing, when a part of me believes that a mess is important, because it is proof that one is living a life?
  • I should be asking questions; I shouldn’t be taking notes. But what can I say that hasn’t been said before? I worry that I am falling far behind. I tried reasoning with myself that I could always jump lessons, fast forward to Week 3 if I wanted. A big part of me rejects this, is anxious at the idea that I’m not following the lectures in order, that I am missing out on a lot of things if I didn’t read what others are writing about the poem. It’s enough to drive me mad, but only because everything is important to me.
  • The Adalaj Stepwell was breathtaking. How must it feel like, standing inside of that structure, being bathed with light. Someday I will go there.
  • This is my favourite part of the day, sitting on the table, a warm mug in my hand, laughing. How many people are having the same moment, all over the world?
  • How grief is a wound that reopens

The Moment
Marie Howe

Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment

when,     nothing


no what-have-I-to-do-today-list

maybe     half a moment

the rush of traffic stops.

The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be

slows to silence,

the white cotton curtains hanging still.



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