When I cannot write, I look up. Craned neck, closed eyes. I swivel my creaking chair, and open them.
Meditative whir and whirl
Rendered in black-and-white, like rubbed-away ink on a faded page.
*“…beating time along the edge of thought.”-Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Although hundreds of trees spread across the distant horizon like ink blots, the park adjacent to my flat is the only true green spot in this industrial neighborhood.
Pretty flowers and plants near the old workhouse wall that dissects my neighborhood.
I’m partial to the rust and dust and accumulated dirt, the graffiti and old buildings that litter the CW. The flowers are bright and perky, but they’ll die in service to the coming season. I like the good bones of the stone and brick structures, even if the edges are crumbly. They last, even if they are a bit shabby.
*I will be the gladdest thing/Under the sun!/I will touch a hundred flowers/And not pick one”-Edna St. Vincent Millay, Afternoon on a Hill
“Perhaps there is another kind of writing, I only know this one: in the night, when fear does not let me sleep.”-Franz Kafka
[All images are in the Public Domain and are courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.]
[All images are courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and are in the Public Domain]
“A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.”-Edgar Allan Poe
English: Title page of Shakespeare’s Sonnets (1609) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
“It seems to me it cannot be wrong to read good poetry an entire morning if you happen to be particularly receptive in that respect, because when you are poetically receptive you see so much of life behind the words.”-Wanda Gág
[All images are in the Public Domain and are courtesy of Wikimedia Commons]
A view from the cemetery floor.
“He could not die when trees were green, for he loved the time too well.”-John Clare
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