A form of life that keeps itself in relation to a poetic practice, however that might be, is always in the studio, always in its studio.
Its—but in what way do that place and practice belong to it? Isn’t the opposite true—that this form of life is at the mercy of its studio?
It seems reasonable in a coastal state like Maine to expect a fish when you order a red snapper. Unfortunately for many unsuspecting visitors “from away,” a very different product goes by the name red snapper in my home state: a beloved hot dog made with a natural casing for a toothy snap and dyed unnaturally bright red for disputed reasons.
Although the idea of “ageing dramatically” sounds exhausting. I’m not sure I have the energy to do anything dramatically any more. Can I not age lethargically and half-heartedly, with an eye-roll and a groan, the way I do everything else? Especially in August.
Can what looks like running away from grief and sadness actually be a way to heal?
In “The Slow Road North,” writer Rosie Schaap chronicles her circuitous route from spending most of her life as a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker to finding herself settling down far away in a small town in Northern Ireland.