It’s been a long while since I posted anything here; it’s
been hot, very hot, stultifying to the point where I’ve let myself become a creature
of comfort, consumption, laziness. It’s been almost an entire season since I
last posted anything. Lately, I’ve read Wolf Hall (a marvel) and Leaving the
Atocha Station (despite having all the elements that I would normally dislike –
a hyper self-aware self-preoccupied narrator who is young, artistic, and abroad
– I was charmed). I’ve started several books and not finished them. Every week
seems to have been punctuated by some small event, some happy obligation. Truthfully,
I’ve also wasted quite a lot of time on what my husband calls ‘grids of shit,’
i.e. scrolling through good-looking objects on the internet instead of doing
something more meaningful at the computer. I’ve let myself go. But I’m
returning to the fold. I’m getting my pencils in order. It’s nearly September.
In the spirit of consumption and faint connections and for
the intentionality embodied by its subject, this article in the Paris Review blog and these links for poems by Marianne Moore and Elizabeth Bishop.
More soon,
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