Writing is the perfect lover for me. She is magical, both ever present and invisible. And so no one can ever lure her away from me. I confess I have not been the perfect lover in return, often I have asked her to do things for others she may not want to do at all. Yet she … Continue reading Writing, the Perfect Lover
I'm conjuring all the weightless floating facts of one memorable April past and beckoning them to to land for a moment in a coherent thought. Yes, like T.S. Eliot did in 1922, with his poem that begins with the burial of the dead, Waste Land, I am thinking April is the cruelest month. April, I was walking up a … Continue reading Is April the Cruelest Month?