The Writing Life
Writing, as an activity, often is a free-form sort of thing. Writers arrive to the work, and they work for a certain amount of time or until the words satisfy them. Such constraints can be enough, but for the writers who want to become better, deadlines are necessary.
I love salads. More specifically, I love spinach and kale, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers and zucchinis, and brightly colored bell peppers. I used to make my salads one at a time; that is, I’d slice just enough vegetables for a single salad. I’ve since changed that method, both for the sake of efficiency and having several projects requiring attention.
The attention which the poem pays to all that it encounters, its more acute sense of detail, outline, structure, color, but also of the ‘tremors and hints’ – all this is not, I think, achieved by an eye competing (or concurring) with ever more precise instruments, but, rather, by a kind of concentration mindful of all our dates…‘attention is the natural prayer of the soul.’ – Paul Celan, “The Meridian”
The problem with practicing the piano is that I know how far my skills have fallen. It’s been years since I played, so the fall isn’t unexpected. I simply have an awareness of how far I have to go if I hope to rise to that level again.
Run like hell my dear,
From anyone likely
To put a sharp knife
Into the sacred, tender vision
Of your beautiful heart.
Hafiz, “We Have Not Come to Take Prisoners”