Sunday, January 21, 2007
Drown me
Romanticism is a form of cowardice. I realised this this week when I caught the first hour of the delicious, slightly dangerous, erotic but still ever-so-slightly-self-absorbed Blood Ink night down at Teddy's on Jasper. If you haven't read anything from this unnerving and fascinating poetry collective, I highly recommend it. Last Monday they had a jam-packed evening of readings and it was spectacular.
What I most took from it as I ran out at the first intermission, though (I had a previous engagement, alright?), was that all of the sexy, diabolical poems I'd been lapping up should have been ringing bells all through my head, asking Why aren't I writing those poems? The answer is, of course, that I like to nurture a small-r and big-R sense of romanticism about love and longing, and that involves making a lot of pasta for one in the hopes of fairy-tale romances arriving at the door while you're grating the romano and surprise! you must have accidentally made too much, because there's just enough pasta for two...
The long and the short of this all is that I apologise for not giving you anything handsome to read lately. I really have been out there on the wintery brown streets soaking up things worth writing about. Watch this space in the not-too-distant future for a small series I have planned to explain the literary sewage canals that are running beneath all the rambling you've been patient enough to read. I realised there are some books I consider so fundamental to understandings of the soul that I've been taking it for granted you've already read them when I write about obscure Chinese sustainable development projects and making cheese. Okay, there hasn't been anything about cheese so far, but everything is connected, right? Right?
May I also add that I find it extremely gratifying that you guys are using this blog primarily to cheat on English homework. I cannot imagine a better home for all my renegade rousings and speculations.
posted by Christopher at 1:41 a.m.
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