Somehow, even after 7 hours in the studio today (4 art books due very, very soon), I still love books and writing so much that it’s hard for me to express it in words. I’ll try something James Dickey said:
What you have to realize when you write poetry, or if you love poetry, is that poetry is just naturally the greatest god damn thing that ever was in the whole universe.
And then there’s this book I was given, a tiny little thing, with tiny poems letterpressed into its pages, poems I feel I almost wrote myself (and after taking this book arts class, I actually COULD make this book myself [!!]):
I can’t seem to write anything small these days. I am long-winded, full of things to say, full of poems despite how much I must do in the realm of schoolwork every day to insure that by the time I board a plane to Nashville, on May 11th, everything will be finished. It will be gloriously bound, pressed, researched, written, edited, stapled, sent, dropped off, handed in, handed over, FINISHED!
panache, perhaps 