September 22, 2018

I love the past tense, but you can’t live there.
I love the stories you believe add up to you,
Though they never do. I love the way
The rhythms and the tenses and the words
Add up to nothing, or to a diversion, or to this:
I know this place, and even think it’s true
(If places can be true), but what does it say?
That if I wake I’ll wake up into it, and then go on?
Or is it just a state of mind, a place to linger in
Or stay, whose seeming is the whole of its reality?
I was born to indecision: I follow thoughts
Wherever they lead, and dreams until it’s clear
They won’t come true. I live in my imagination
Most of the time, biding what’s left of my time
And waiting for no one in particular to come —
Waiting for an ending endlessly deferred,
When you (the reader of my life) and I are one.

John Koethe

Reading and writing

September 22, 2018

After all, reading is arguably a far more creative and imaginative process than writing; when the reader creates emotion in their head, or the colours of the sky during the setting sun, or the smell of a warm summer’s breeze on their face, they should reserve as much praise for themselves as they do for the writer — perhaps more.

Jasper Fforde
The Well of Lost Plots

an art that becomes personal

September 22, 2018

A form of art that revels in its inherent suggestive quality and not in ascertaining, an art that becomes personal to every pair of beholding, curious eyes just as intimate as it was for the pair that initially spooled a moment off the fabric of time.

S. Rao
A Non-Photographer’s Meditation on the Meaning of Photography

expect her to rustle

September 22, 2018

Some people are magic, and others are just the illusion of it

There are plenty of legends about women turning into trees but are there any about trees turning into women? Is it odd to say that your lover reminds you of a tree? Well she does, it’s the way her hair fills with wind and sweeps out around her head. Very often I expect her to rustle. She doesn’t rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch. Would I had a hedge of such saplings naked and unadorned.

Jeanette Winterson
Written on the Body

attacked for being a dreamer

September 22, 2018

Thieves books by ajfilipowska

Emily Dickinson had an amazing imagination, but so did her nephew, who came home from school one day in tears, having been berated by his teacher — perhaps even whacked — for having told the class about the white goat who lived in the attic. He was attacked for being a dreamer, a liar, someone who made things up. Upon hearing this, Emily was furious, beside herself with fury, and said that the teacher could come to the house and see for herself the white goat in the attic, for indeed it lived there, Emily had seen it, there it was, munching a pile of grass under the beams.

This anecdote is the only thing I remember from reading a five-hundred-plus-page biography of the poet. I am not even vaguely interested in the men, or the women, or any of that other stuff; I am interested in the goat, whom I love as if it were mine own, and though I don’t have an attic, I have a place in my head where it can live, and go on living, as I feed it daily with mounds of fresh cut grass. Over the years, it has been given a blue ribbon round its neck, from which dangles a silver bell.

Mary Ruefle
On imagination