No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I felt there was a poem inside me that needed to come out, and I sat down with pencil and paper and wrote it down. When I read the poem back to myself, I cried for the first time, a good bit actually. The poem was the key I needed for tapping into the feelings that had been hanging out under the surface, just out of reach.
...to appreciate poetry or stories.
I don’t write a little every day. I stay up for two days, sleep for twelve hours, and then repeat that for a month. That’s the rhythm. When it hits, I don’t pace myself. I disappear into it. My body is not a temple. I use it to write until the thing is done. Then I collapse, hard, and spend the next few weeks pretending to be a person while waiting for it to happen again.
Talented writers...
A 12” disc of 180 gram vinyl, encased in a glossy, dark green cover. Four mop-topped boys on the front look like brothers, and they’re oddly slanted, the grainy photo distorted. In the corner are fat, bubbly letters perfectly reminiscent of the psychedelic mid-sixties. I’m told by music journals that the album cover was edgy. It probably looks like how the Beatles saw the world starting that year. Ringo says they were stoned out of their mind for the filming of their movie, Help!, just months before, so it’s safe to say they were probably stoned for most of this album, too. Granny probably wasn’t thinking this, though. The album, I’m sure, left a lasting impression on her back in 1965.
When reading a new story, you have to hear the silent music in the sentences. It's pacing, as if moving in an inner dance-like performative experience.