phoenix {rising} |
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Wordcrust Scatter Things thick and somehow tainted. Not in the hot terrifying way. Fucked up for the first time this semester. Anthro assignment's going to be two days late. Fuck. Fuck. I am vaguely weighing the possibility of one of those fakeout-y moves, one of those sent-partial-document, oops-wrong-version moves. I think I'd rather not. I think I'd rather take the grade penalty and leave it clear-cut, keep it from getting fuzzy and knitting itself into the lining of my stomach and growing like mold over my insides. I am struck by the ending of this entry by the lovely Delighted. How much of my experience is arbitrary? In my poetry (literature) course this morning, we went, briefly, too far into pomo pointlessness. A girl saying that she is content to know something is Art and appreciate it, to be entertained for a few moments. I know this girl writes poetry, I've talked to her before for awhile (she is beautifully tattooed and seductively hard-edged). I wanted to ask, "But aren't you trying to say something? Don't you have something to say?" I have something to say, but I don't know what it is. I described revision in my poetry (studio) class as a process of figuring out what you are trying to say. I talk before I know what I'm talking about, and sometimes it's only after I've said something that I realize I believe it. And I wonder if that is particularly unusual. Maybe the whole canon is momentary and fragile, representing something someone said before they knew it. |
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