A Word

I used to think when I turned thirty I would become a writer.

Thirty passed.

I wrote here then, daily. Poems. Essays. Words like leaves on a page curling, turning over in the wind.

I wrote before that, too. Decades before: shelves, walls, boxes of words.

I didn't know what blogger meant. Monetize, followers, trolls.

And then erasure happened.

It swept.

My knees became my feet, my eyes like the closing flowers, unseen.

I have dwelt in caves dripping.

Time has passed. The sun is higher.

I write.
I want you to know I am still writing.

Yes, my answer will always be yes,

I am writing.

Image: John Bridges, Embrace
Text: Terresa Wellborn

Out of sheer wonderment

“Our hands full or not:
 

The same abundance.
 

Our eyes open or shut:
 

The same light.” 
 

-Yves Bonnefoy, The Curved Planks: Poems


Image: Kim Høltermand, Grundtvigs Church, 2009
Title: W.G. Sebald, The Rings of Saturn

The map has been barely marked

Driving takes hold of the left brain and then the right brain is 

 

freed—that’s what some writer friends and I have theorized. 

 

But I can’t always stop when I get an idea. It depends on the 

 

road— North Dakota, no traffic. When I’m driving on a very 

 

 

empty stretch of road I do write with one hand. It’s hardly 

 

legible, but still, you don’t want to have to stop every time.” 
 

 

-Louise Erdrich

Note: Yes.
Post Note: As unimpressed as I have been with Erdrich's writing (several attempts, half-finished readings, abandoned books bedside), this quote sings.

Image: Shoji Ueda, Winter 3
Title: Gerald Murnane, Inland

New Year's Resolution 2013

Image: Laurence Demaison
Quote: Rilke, from The Inner Sky: Poems, Notes, Dreams, trans. by Damion Searls