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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.

3 comments:

Sheryl said...

Write what you want and need to write! Be who you are! You obviously want to grow and branch out in your reading, so you live in no box. Your open window to the world is refreshing. Why live in a windowless tower, writing only for those in the same tower?
Sheryl

Diana Marie Delgado said...

sheryl, thanks. you are z best.

Rich said...

My Dad digs Santa Anita. Along with every horse racing track on the planet. :-)

I commented back to you over on my blog. And as I said there, I totally wasn't kidding about that symposium thingy...