Electricity & All That

shift+7

There’s a certain amount of waiting that happens with writing. I’m not talking right now about waiting as in the staring at the blank page, the ruthless blinking cursor. Not waiting for the divine to fill the vessel of the self. Not waiting for the magic to happen. But it is a waiting like the moment after a hard question is asked, after a complicated letter is sent. It’s not clear when or how or if a reply will come, only that it might or might not, and if it does, it won’t necessarily contain an answer.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we delay things we know will annihilate our hearts. There are movies, for example, that I’m absolutely interested in seeing—make plans to see, even—that I then refuse to watch. And there are poems I know I need to write—I might have a title or a structure…

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