Saturday, March 25, 2006
Everything on Nothing
Listening to Chopin's Nocturne in B minor performed by Horowitz. Chopin brings me a bright pleasure that gets me in the scalp, fingertips, the lids of my eyes. It gets me where it counts.
I won't mention what Mozart's Requiem does to me.
Waiting for Amazon to deliver Bachelard's Psychoanalysis of Fire. I've highlighted just about every passage in The Poetics of Space so I figure there must be diamonds, rubies, and emeralds in this book.
I've given up trying to write a poem and have purchased a special aubergine purple chemistry notebook, narrow lined; soft green numbers floating on the left side of the pages. I write lines and just leave them there. I'm hoping when I do feel capable of stitching, the images, thoughts, & emotions will be there.
The rest of the day I'm devoting to a freewrite for an essay I've been wanting to write since I was born. Has to do with growing up in La Puente, Libraries, & the Little Adventures of Childhood: learning how to skate, picking up tickets at Santa Anita racetrack, and watching my dog have puppies. Does anybody care about this? Don't know. Problem is I have to write what I'm going to write, even if it's just for myself.