6 October 2013
Over wine and Thai food, S. and I talked about a lot of things: getting the wedding that you want regardless of other people’s qualms and/or demands, gift giving, today’s youth (does that make us sound positively curmudgeon?), passport problems, family. But I think the big part of our afternoon is about poetry and writing. We haven’t done that in a long while–I mean, really talk about it: the writing process, editing and revising, poetics (ha, I’m cringing as I write this), etc.
Something that I’ve been munching on for months (a familiar refrain): how my sister told me one morning that I have absolutely no right to even think about writing at this point in my life. To do away with it, and instead put on the forefront of everything the following logical and practical concerns: my job, paying my debts, getting out of the house. I asked S., but how can I do that, when it is who I am? No matter how much I try, I always end up going back to it. Whether it’s answering letters, or confessing in my journal, or creating silly projects–I am writing, writing, writing. It’s what I do.
And S.–she understands, she truly does. I’m sure you know it as well–our life’s work. This.
I’ve been up since three in the morning, thinking about yesterday’s conversation. I said to myself, ah, I’m going to take it back again. My life. Each time I lose grasp of it I must always chase it down, and hope that I get to hold on and do, and be. Over and over, until I get it right. No, no, perhaps not right–until it’s done.
Here, something that keeps me going: