and i ask myself

[fflo]

and now a short poem, entitled
and i ask myself

what the fork am i doing?
only i don't say "fork."

what do you all think? that's not part of the poem. we're outta the poem now.

(or are we?)

(this ain't no poem, baby.)

norman mailer, who said you need one thing in order to be a writer, but it's really two things, if you count each testicle as an individual, died today. or yesterday. whatever.

i am most disappointed to be disappointed in Fingersmith, the TV adaptation of the famous Sarah Waters novel. definitely shoulda read the book first. i think it's my headspace, as they say, and as i was telling shmizla, though i started out complimenting her banana bread. there's another curséd thing about that work of art too.

oh, it's a bit of a rough night down here in the lower marlborough quadrant, or whatever the official neighborhood name is. i'm gonna be sleeping sounder than my neighbor, though, likely.

got one load of laundry partly done. put batteries in my new flashlight. went for a walk in the woods.

which reminds me, what the fork am i doing? what space is this, this headspace? heartspace too loud. can't hear headspace. but i am up in that headspace, where the pounding muffled heart, down there somewhere goin' crazy, echoes loudly through everything g g g g g

muse later, maybe, on: permission not to think

Comments

[schroederjt.livejournal.com]

I read Fingersmith, but I haven't seen the movie version. Sarah Waters is a very evocative writer. I remember reading the part in the madhouse during lunch, and going back to my desk feeling like I had actually spent an hour in the madhouse instead of in the bright warm cafeteria. But I did not like the way you spent hundreds of pages deeply invested in a story where all the characters are acutely miserable and then only get maybe three pages of Happy Ending. Have you read Tipping the Velvet?

[fflo.livejournal.com]

Yep. Did the book first with Tipping, which was fun. She is absorbing, that's for sure, and indeed calls up well---through whatever all writerly means---atmosphere, setting, stuff like that.

I dig what you're saying about the almost-solid misery. Even when they're not miserable, they are cuz of what they think is going on that isn't, or they would be (or would be even moreso) if they knew what was going on. Not that life isn't like that. And it makes for pretty gritty Victorian novel ambiance & everything. But, yeah, I want a little more salve after going through that with everybody. These days anyway.