Writing in Milk
I've lost what I had here 'bout five times now.
You could sum it up easily: cold, lonely, bored, not tired, absence, naked piano playing, hot bath, veins, see-through skin, Chopin, voices like bittersweet chocolate and voices like indian pudding, drafty old house, vague wishes to write about more cheerful things.
My professor once said that my writing was "powerfully allusive" and I wondered if she realized that the truth was that I can make allusions quite skillfully, but only because I am too afraid to dive in after them and know something thoroughly. Everything I do makes allusions to long and old traditions, as well as my own traditions, but it's also only skimming like skipping stones.
If you felt like being kind, you could say that I leave the deeper meanings for the wordless parts of ourselves to figure out. If you felt like being less kind, you could just say that I'm a lazy writer and thinker.
Do you know what's in my locket? A slip of paper with the phrase, in welsh, "a lovely pearl." Clever, wouldn't you say? It's very allusive. I know what it means. You can't always call me out. I make slim, slight references to the Tower of Babel but can turn around and quote chapter and verse if someone challenges me.
You always have to watch out, though. You have to watch out for me.
2003-01-03, Watch out
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