Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
— William Shakespeare, cymbaline
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
— William Shakespeare, cymbaline
Think of anything, of cowboys, of movies, of detective stories, of anybody who goes anywhere or stays home and is an American and you will realize that it is something strictly American to conceive a space that is filled with moving, a space of time that is filled always filled with moving …
— Gertrude Stein, The Gradual Making of the Making of Americans
“I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the colour of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat…”
— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
When you undertake to make a work of art—a novel or a clay pot—you’re not competing against anybody, except yourself and God. Can I do it better this time?
— Ursula K Le Guin, from her essay The Stone Ax and the Muskoxen, collected in The Language of the Night.
Oh, Yes
there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
than
too late.
–Charles Bukowski
“Library collections don’t imply endorsement; they imply access to the many different ideas of our culture, which is precisely our purpose in public life.” — Jamie LaRue, librarian. (via Neil Gaiman)
In honor of, and in reaction to, banned book week. Citizens, please note the distinction between “parent” and “government.” A well-considered response.
“To live in contact with those I love, with the beauties of nature, with a quantity of books and music, and to have, within easy distance, a French theater.” — Marcel Proust, age 13, in answer to the question, “What is your idea of earthly happiness?”
And a quote from Samuel R Delany’s About Writing:
To learn anything worth knowing requires that you learn as well how pathetic you were when you were ignorant of it. The knowledge of what you have lost irrevocably because you were in ignorance of it is the knowledge of the worth of what you have learned. A reason knowledge/learning in general is so unpopular with so many people is because very early we all learn there is a phenomenologically unpleasant side to it: to learn anything entails the fact that there is no way to escape learning that you were formerly ignorant, to learn that you were a fool, that you have already lost irretrievable opportunities, that you have made wrong choices, that you were silly and limited. These lessons are not pleasant. The acquisition of knowledge—especially when we are young—again and again includes this experience.
Clarion 2009 is going swimmingly. Hope everyone is well.
The happy news from yesterday: I got accepted to the Clarion Workshop.
I’m at work, so I’ll effuse later, but yes, it would be fair to say that I’m excited. And a bit intimidated, given the skill of the other writers going. Not to mention the instructors.
Six weeks of writing and creative community in California. I am looking forward to this so hard.
I recieved some very exciting news yesterday, but I can’t say anything about it just yet.
But soon. O yes, so soon.
Until then, let your joy be as full as mine:
The first issue of Bricabrac is ready. At long last.
Bricabrac is my to-be-monthly poetry mix zine, full of the poems I like and think you should like.
I love the way April’s issue looks. Tofer Moran, the wondrous designer, clothier, and my fellow musician, has beautifully executed my idea of creating something similar to a mix-tape for poetry, done in hard-copy. His design skills make this so much more legitimate.
These are the poems on my mind this month. And because the best things are better shared, I’ve been leaving these around Durham, NC, like little pots of gold, ready to be someone’s found treasure. Or like diseased rats at the bottom of one’s soup, depending on your metaphor.
Catch the disease (or become fabulously wealthy. Again, depending on your metaphor). If you live near me, ask for one. If you don’t, download the case and the innards and assemble this sucker yourself:
Assembly instructions:
Print the fold-out double-sided, then fold the 11″x17″ in half horizontally twice, then once vertically, to create a booklet (like a zoo map).
To assemble the case, print the 8.5″x11″ and fold it in half horizontally. Then unfold it and fold down the tabs so you have a sort of very shallow trough. Align the case as if it were a book you were reading and tape down the left side tabs. You should end up with something that looks like a CD case, with restraining tabs on the top and bottom of the right half. Put the fold-out beneath them, turned sideways.
That was horribly cryptic; sorry. Maybe I’ll make a video.
If you don’t want to do all that difficult folding, you could come to Durham and walk around Brightleaf and hope you happen on one. Check the gutter.
(Also, I included one of my poems in here, nestled among the greats. Vanity, your name is Self-published.)