1. Dinner with some friends and the conversation turned to art (oh god here we go). As usual, I kept my mouth shut, because, well, what do I know really? I just like standing in front of big windows and looking

1. What happened is, I sat on my desk yesterday and found that bits and pieces of my life were stolen. I know no other way to say it except that. It feels a lot like someone is stealing my life,

1. Let's try this again. 2. The truth is, I was confronted with the fact that the space I have created for myself is not invincible. It is a thing I had to digest for a while. I had thought myself under the

“I write for myself and strangers.” — Gertrude Stein


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I change and I am the same. Nothing has been truer today. The Remains Mark Strand I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets, I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road. At night I turn back the

The other day, M. told me: Breathe. Nothing about you is wrong. I'm still thinking about that. Katy Frank O'Hara They say I mope too much but really I'm loudly dancing. I eat paper. It's good for my bones. I play the piano pedal. I dance, I am

I should be wise. One way or the other. Those Who Love Sara Teasdale Those who love the most, Do not talk of their love, Francesca, Guinevere, Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise, In the fragrant gardens of heaven Are silent, or speak if at all Of fragile, inconsequent things. And a woman

Ah, but I found this little gem today which has been hiding in my shelf for years. Once Sharon Olds I saw my father naked, once, I opened the blue bathroom door which he always locked — if it opened, it was empty — and there,

"I began to understand / how a poem can happen: you have your eye on a small / elusive detail, pursuing its music, when a terrible truth / strikes

The book is gone. I can't believe I gave away my copy. And when I came back to the only gallery where they sell her book, there's nothing left. How could I let this happen? Tonight all I did was

M., As it turns out I've had quite an unproductive afternoon—the rain interfered with the electricity here, so I turned off my computer and had a nap. Just finished dinner and am now back at my desk listening to Dean Martin. No

Dear M., I will find the time to write you a longer letter. But yes, a whole universe of yes, about us finding each other, and the whys of that. I'm lucky to have you, know you. Maybe, in a world

Remembered reading Meyerhofer before. He has a brilliant poem about death and ashes and urns (been meaning to post it but I keep forgetting). That one made me laugh because after Lolo died, that's one of the things we discussed

Because the year has just started, and every once in awhile, one is entitled to a love poem: Sonnet XVII Pablo Neruda I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love

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