lidocafe (lidocafe) wrote,
lidocafe
lidocafe

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WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE?


Did spring ever wear so many fabulous frocks as she does when she comes out on the island?

I've been writing letters half the day--letters for work, a letter to the beau, a letter to an ex-student-- and I begin to wonder whether all the energy I put into professional and personal communications could go into some other sort of writing.  If so, am I slowly bleeding myself?  But how did those writers of old keep up with their many correspondents?  Rilke wrote letters to a young poet.  Dylan Thomas wrote letters to everyone, especially if they were at all likely to a) worship him or b) fuck him. 

If I thought someone was likely to want to a) worship me or b) fuck me, would that be inspirational?  Maybe, maybe not.  Maybe I would still rather wander through Ross Bay Cemetery with headphones in than buckle down.  But I digress.

The great writers always wrote letters.  But they also just . . . .wrote.  (Yes, yes, they didn't have FB or GMail chat or whatever, but you digress.)

Will my writing life be different once the beau moves back to Canada?  I know, for instance, that I have neglected this journal most shockingly.  I am sure someone remembers the days when I used to wax wordy about all manner of things (too many, I admit, trivial).  What happened to the film contemplations?  What happened to the bit about Psycho that I was going to develop into a full-fledged piece?

But work is crazy and not conducive to inspiration.  I need a holiday.  Then I'll write more.  Sure I will.


Tags: beau, blogging, g, writing
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