"Star-nosed moles write beautifully about the arts."
This picture has strangely shown up in my folders, and is a peculiar one to say the least. Does anyone know the origin of this image, and who the writing is from?
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Star-nosed Moles
"Star-nosed moles write beautifully about the arts."
This picture has strangely shown up in my folders, and is a peculiar one to say the least. Does anyone know the origin of this image, and who the writing is from?
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Still not published, still not published, still not...
On writing this, I’m on the harbor, by Battery Park, and by the infinite light of the night. My apologies to those who have been patiently (or impatiently, as you so choose) waiting for another journal response for me to shew. It has been a quiet month, with too many whispers to write about at once.
I am in the bitter abyss of the Hudson, somewhere on the delta islands, and ultimately alone, though with the more esteemed of friends. They have given me shelter in the warm winds, the dirty winds. But is it that which has compelled me to stay in the desolate city? They are happy here, presumably for themselves, and with that connection I am not unfamiliar with, though presently without.
There have been many subjects of discussion floating about the river lately, on nostalgia, wontedness, loneliness, futurity and other things. Among the recesses of conversation, I stumbled on Solomon, and how he is the truest words in the Bible; and the sun is down now, just like he said, the sun will rise anew.
The sun is really the only thing to be jealous of, from that antiquated point of view, but ultimately, even the sun’s rises are in vain. And yet I struggle to get published, while Poetry magazine still shovels out shit by the bucketful. What a load of vanity.
And what's worse is that I know I'm better than 80% of the writers out there; but I appear not to put in the effort for it. This is the cost of being spoiled early on: it's a rough time of it to adjust at any age. At least a child has nothing to lose for wasting a few precious moments. Though maybe it's theirs to waste?
And thusly ends the night, with the mad siren carrying someone off.
I am in the bitter abyss of the Hudson, somewhere on the delta islands, and ultimately alone, though with the more esteemed of friends. They have given me shelter in the warm winds, the dirty winds. But is it that which has compelled me to stay in the desolate city? They are happy here, presumably for themselves, and with that connection I am not unfamiliar with, though presently without.
There have been many subjects of discussion floating about the river lately, on nostalgia, wontedness, loneliness, futurity and other things. Among the recesses of conversation, I stumbled on Solomon, and how he is the truest words in the Bible; and the sun is down now, just like he said, the sun will rise anew.
The sun is really the only thing to be jealous of, from that antiquated point of view, but ultimately, even the sun’s rises are in vain. And yet I struggle to get published, while Poetry magazine still shovels out shit by the bucketful. What a load of vanity.
And what's worse is that I know I'm better than 80% of the writers out there; but I appear not to put in the effort for it. This is the cost of being spoiled early on: it's a rough time of it to adjust at any age. At least a child has nothing to lose for wasting a few precious moments. Though maybe it's theirs to waste?
And thusly ends the night, with the mad siren carrying someone off.
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