Injuries of the Past 8 Days:
1 bruised knee, from running into dresser
1 scraped up leg, from falling in the parking lot
2 burns on my arm, from ironing Bryan’s shirt
1 burn on my hand, from the curling iron this morning
I am in self-destruct-mode.
Campus is ghostly quiet. Is it strange that I prefer it this way? In my over-emotional state, which has come more often than not these past few months, I hope for an entire day of a student-free office. And boss-free too, I’ll admit.
Ah, my overemotional state. Never so many tears and injustices! Yesterday after another occurrence of family drama and the tears and the phone calls and the being calmed down again. Of course, after that, anything else that happens is terrible. I read somewhere an offhand remark by a christian singer that no one reads poetry. I was furious! Furious! I am someone! I read poetry!
but mostly I was just upset about the family drama. And wanted someone else, whom I didn’t love, or didn’t even know, to be angry with.
“No one reads poetry.” “No one reads books.” “The Novel is dead.” “Paper-books are of the past” “Bookstores are dinosaurs” “Poetry book contests are rigged”
blah blah blah
I used to follow the doom-sayers more closely but I’ve grown so tired of hearing it. What I hear, when people say those things, is that what I love is irrelevant. I’m not even 25 yet, and what I’ve focused my primary work ambitions on is completely irrelevant. That I am wasting my time. That not only will no one read what I write, there won’t even be bookstores for them to buy what I write in, IF I can manage to get published.
If I’m irrelevant than I am irrelevant. I don’t care a straw. Its not going to keep me from loving what I love, reading what I read, nosing around in bookstores for hours upon hours, and writing
and writing and writing