1. Familiar story: writerly intention--whatever that means--thwarted by some secret brain initiative. That first novel, your collection of poems, is really about your mother. Or your divorce. Or whatever.
Surprise! So's the second one.
But I love that, too. I love that we're thinking about other things than we claim to be, even when thinking to ourselves. What a marvelous and human capacity.
I spent yesterday revising some recent poems and, lo! Welcome, Accidental Hamlet Poem, welcome Accidental Daughter Poem. I didn't expect you to show up.
In other news, hearing the cashier ring up the total of my remaining course books--$58--was not a happy accident. This morning, the receipt clearly says $85.
2.
Dear Librarians Who Work In A Particular Public Library In A Particular Place Where I May Or May Not Actually Live At This Moment In Time,
I love you. And I love libraries indiscriminately. Anytime I move to a new place, the first thing I do after unpacking my boxes and buying coffee is start memorizing the library floor plan.
Do you not sense my fierce love and admiration each time I hand you my library card? Even if you are having a bad library day, are you so immune to my charm, to my cheerful demeanor?
I don't understand you, Librarians. I don't ask for much. A smile. A friendly overture. Anything but coldness. Anything but that.
Yours, in agony,
KE
(The RadCam in Oxford. Not The Library In Question. But A Favorite.)
No comments:
Post a Comment