A resumé of Émile Nelligan in 10 minute video. He made his opus, then was institutionalized mad for decades. At this time dementia and convenience of family put people in such asylums and it was guarded by former guards and policemen more than by nurses, at least in Ireland’s equivalent. So many gaps in knowledge and history.
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Doing data entry in French which the computer tries to spellcheck all to English words. It’s enough to make handwritten text more attractive, almost.
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Are you on Bluesky? There are Canadian poets starter packs and haiku and tanka and waka starter packs
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“I seized the day, but I didn’t lift with my knees, so I seized my back too.” Dzintra Sullivan on the dead bird site.
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I have a structural problem, with books. So far my digital storage isn’t jammed but there is no way in sweet purgatory that these stacks are all going into those shelves. They have overrun the box capacity and heaven help but 4 more at least are coming by mail this month. Not to mention the wish list and the inevitable caving in at least some cases.
I have to make some hard calls. No, no, not purge. Probably. Boxing up anthologies and magazines so there is room for novels, history books and single author poetry collections. Even that mitigates little. I could actually box up some to sell that I expect I won’t read again. I believe I have a box or two that I meant to drop off at a book fair but mislaid when the time came. Or I unconsciously wanted to keep them.
Two walls are covered floor to ceiling in shelves. There’s a lot of windows and few options with quilting supplies also overflowing containment. And now more canvasses, and more embroidery gear. This is getting a little out of hand. But to be surrounded by possibility and options is rather delightful.
I do need more order in the office to function tho.
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Book mail out of the blue is so heartening. And a genuine personal letter. Letters are not dead as presumed.
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It’s disheartening how little fun many seem to have while writing poetry. Play and nonsense isn’t fun, nor letting loose some cynical remark? Poets, are you well?
Where is the art I suppose is the question, (she grumps). And in high-art-device poetry, where is the heart and body? Hard to please, I know.
Why can a novel be unput-downable and even written well poetry, off-putting? It must be me that’s shifting, yes? Or randomness of finding worse poetry and better fiction? Or narrative being the medicine I need, over intensity of impressions? Some books are such wonderful rides that all else pales besides and it seems despair alone that anything else could be written so sweetly.