July 31st, 2002



John Crowley read last night at Elliot Bay, the final event in this year's Clarion readings series. He's not quite what I expected, but was very engaging.

He read from his latest (I think) book, called the Translator, about poets and poetry and connections, and falling in love with/through intellect. Of course I found this striking, and relevant to a degree...

Except I'm still firmly convinced we tell ourselves the stories we want to hear. As much as I want to believe such connections happen, I remain solipsistically dubious.

This is what comes of reading too much as a child while being raised under a rock. You think people actually behave the way they do in books.
  • Current Mood
    discontent discontent

the sum of some fears: early afternoon edition

  • the nausea as I walk over a sidewalk grating

  • the flutter as I scroll down my profile to see if anyone has taken me off their friends list

  • the rising stress in my voice as I call my cat if she doesn't meet me at the door when I come home

  • the sinking feeling as I greet someone and they don't see/hear/respond

  • the startle-jump as the phone rings

  • the panic of failed memory under questioning

  • the dread of receiving email

  • the dread of not receiving email

  • the stomach-drop pitch of tripping and falling

  • the horrific certainty of having done something pathologically stupid, again

  • the crawling awareness of bits of the body dying, rotting, decaying

  • the embarassment of creeping stains

  • the knowledge that something is not quite right

  • the despair that nothing changes