i teach writing, but i am not a writer. can i compare that to a tattoo artist who doesn't have a single tattoo on her/his body? there is an artist like that you know...somewhere in europe...maybe paris, yeah i think he lives in paris. anyway, is that an apt comparison? i love my art (or perhaps my profession) but not enough to commit my body to it. i don't think that i love anything that much.
i want to write something about my friend rhonda who has gone on. away. softly. but in this same instance...in the same paragraph even i change my mind. i don't want to or i find that i can't write about this loss, this absence now...or maybe i am narrating it anyway by not writing about it. with me, this sorrow seems to swim beneath the words. perhaps or because with me, grief can find no satisfying branch to perch on//no grammar to anchor it into place onto the page.
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