So giddy and cannot read theory. So manic right now, mania men bubbling up in my brain like bubbles. Pop and I feel myself getting wet. Thinking about him, getting wet. Reading theory, wet. The layers of today: wet, wet, (it’s raining so much today!), wet, and wet.
Ate a mushroom yesterday. Wore a long white tulle dress as if to say I am in love. Hass says poetry is a way of living. And how true that is! Stained glass is poetry, poetry is white birch, slipping a skirt over my thighs is a kind of lyricism only a poet would understand.
My boyfriend told me that describing something does violence to that which is described. This was discussed in a love letter addressed to me. It was a bit of a paradox, then, to lament over language through the medium of the epistle.
But I’ve been thinking about it ever since… how a word is elegy to what it signifies. How cup is a prison, the curve of the c, theu, the p rigid in a way that yields tragedy. Because then: what about the ceramic of the cup? Where did finger pressed on porcelain go? Did the stinking smell of old wine disappear? Or the radiance of the sun glimmering against a morning coffee? I wish words had more potential. But then again, they do. A word is both porous and impenetrable, soft and hard. And onomatopoeia! What a pleasure it is to find a word that sounds as it is, that walks the talk it talks.