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April 26th, 2019

* Well, I got booted off the Idol island last night. And I'm okay with it. I cannot thank all of you enough for your support for my scribbling! That is one aspect of the internet that I believe has made the most difference to my Muse and I'm sure all the writers on the flist agree. We get INSTANT feedback and response and a writer wants, no NEEDS, to be read! I credit you lot with my growth and my enjoyment of this strangely isolating art form.

Now to catch my breath and then roll up my sleeves to begin getting to work on my new writing goal - I want to compile a short story collection.

I also am pondering another writing...experiment, but I'm not ready to put that into words yet.

* So, last night I also finally decided to leave my monk's cell and ventured up the road to my neighbor's for an evening of women and Bunco. It was actually an enjoyable few hours. I know all these women but have really kept my head down for the past two years. It was a bit of returning to the world, if you will. 

Under a Wild Green Fig Tree ~ Edward Hirsch

I am going to eat seven pomegranate seeds
and lie down under a wild green fig tree
in a field that has been ploughed three times

because I want to sleep in fertile soil
sinking into dream time, dream space,
and slip past the door to the underworld,

which has been left ajar for questers
and adepts, for reckless night revelers
stumbling into the corridor of ghosts,

so I can wander the subterranean realm
and listen to Persephone’s hell songs,
music she could learn only in Hades—

the low, fateful lyrics of death,
the soul’s radical return to innocence,
the earth’s eternal movement and passage,

our deep human labor to become spirits,
our almost vegetal need to be reborn,
the cycle of loss, myth of regeneration.
This entry was originally posted at https://bleodswean.dreamwidth.org/338599.html. Please comment there using OpenID.


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