the literary life 3/27/2012
I'm on Spring Break, which means I have more time for randomness. Not that I'm usually un-random. It's just that when this space opens up, I can dive into it you know. So I've been taking a few naps and letting my mind wander. It's what I need to drift deeper into poetic atmosphere. Last night my mind fluttered with a cacophony of dreams. I was in six different memories all at once, and yet it seemed sorta real. Anyway, I have purple carnations on display in my apartment, and yesterday I ordered a tuna melt sandwich at Jerry's Deli. I have this urge to invent a word for that moment when you're driving home from the grocery store and realize you forgot something important. The thing that propelled you there in the first place, and now it would be such an effort to drive back. This morning I kissed a pen and scribbled this thought in my notebook: I keep writing poems to dig wholes in the ceiling. Isn't life, in the end, about irony and absurdity? Stories pop up each day, more surreal than we expect. Beds appear outdoors...under the clouds, and somehow we realize that we've been sleeping under the sky all along, and ceilings encourage this illusion of groundedness.