Part of WordPress’s writing course Finding Everyday Inspiration. In case you didn’t know, I’m a serious overachiever. I usually apply myself to overachieve in areas where overachieving is worthless. In keeping with this admirable principle, I’m currently publishing my n-th post in a 20-day writing challenge series, where n equals a lot and certainly more than
Part of WordPress’s writing course Finding Everyday Inspiration. Today’s writing task doesn’t involve writing. Just as well. The instructions are to mine what’s mine. One suggestion is to look at your own tweets and use them to create something. Another suggestion is to look at your tweets and use an automatic tweets-to-poems generator. I’m game. Or
Be warned. This is extremely dumb. I’ve been thinking about concrete poetry. Not concretely, just generally. It happened after I snapped a snap of concrete. I thought I’d produce a concrete concrete poem. P o u r i n g c o n c r e t e ___ Yeah. I know. Shoot me and
Loosely inspired by a recent somewhat heart-breaking post by Cardinal Guzman, I decided that the world needs more bad poetry. At peace, At home. Alone. Quiet, but not quite. The kettle boiling, Coffee brewing— Another day, another night.
Part of WordPress’s writing course Finding Everyday Inspiration. Today’s prompt combines the textual and the visual. Four stock photos are set to choose from and use as a launchpad for telling a story. I’m not a great storyteller, that won’t do. I’m great at decision paralysis, which isn’t really great either because I devote more time
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health. —Sylvia Plath, “Tulips” I blogged about pain management yesterday, mostly because I found
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. —Sylvia Plath, “Tulips” I’ve been suffering from a new kind of pain the last ten days.
I celebrated Labour Day by labouring on my research paper, which I hope to publish in an obscure academic journal. The deadline for submissions was 1 May, and I started writing on 30 April, deploying the classic tactics of motivation through pressure. My paper turned out somewhat differently than what I promised in the pre-approved abstract.