My dog is getting fat.
But what I wanted to write is that I am suspending this blog as I am writing poetry right now (please imagine that I wrote this message half a year ago); I no longer have the finger strength to muse in a colloquial fashion, although the economics of poetry is not its only attraction. This is my secret drug, usually pursued under the covers with a torch, producing a literary mess all over the pages of a little black book.
I lost my little black book over christmas, which made me very anxious as well as alerting me to the folly of not backing up my work.
Having had a few poems published online by random submission, I have taken this and a great dose of someone else’s confidence in order to make myself a better woman. I am nothing, but I still want for what I make and do to be appreciated. Aren’t folk complicated that way?
I am working on another site with a gaggle of gentle friends on the theme of Proletkult, which I believe I wrote an article about a while ago. I hope it will turn into a magazine of little artistic disquisitions, belle lettres, interviews, music, drawing, or if you prefer you can simply fall asleep on your keyboard and submit the outcome; this would please me no end. Sleeping produces a cacophony that cannot be reduced to a mere sequence of z’s. This is what I have learned during those insomnial dark hours.
And If you would like to contribute please let me know somehow.