Thinking about what art is, what power(s) we invest into the objects we create, how they become independent entities, about the ability of narration to create meaning, how experiences become real. About Nietzsche and Rushdie, significance and identity and language, about poetry, about the physical world, my physical body, the triumph of mind and community over physical weakness. About love, what it is, what it isn't, what it has been, what it should be. About gender, its irrelevance, its social construction, about the way life surprises me. About time, the sublime, and drinking wine.....
(Just threw that last one in because it rhymes, but it's also true.)
Let this suffice for an update: this is week 9, we got snow last Thursday in PA, I ran my half-marathon in Columbus on Sunday, I am busy, and I am happy in ways I never expected.
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3 comments:
Thanks, Dana!
<3
Art is reality, isn't it. Art is how we define ourselves . . .
So pleasant to see someone reaching contentment. The world has too many brooding poets. Your outlook is refreshing.
Marita, thank you for the comment. I've never been good at the whole "brooding poet" thing.
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