A writer fell asleep, dreamt she was a volcano.
But instead of hot lava,
what flowed what leaked from her?
Enough ink to cover entire cities.
Heroes and Enemies took up fast-flowing fountain pens.
And everyone engaged in an ancient War on Writing, a battle to stir spontaneity.
Disaster spawns autobiography.
If you are a red monster, you are welcome to write your autobiography in verse.
Me. I am blue violet. I tried to write my autobiography in the form of a musical comedy.
But Fred Eb died September 11, 2004. He was the lyricist of the famous "New York, New York" sung exquisitely by Liza Minnelli.
I always felt a bit unnerved that Mister Eb died exactly three years after... (Means nothing, perhaps, but isn't it...hmm?)
I was left weeping at the edge of a crater.
So I keep this blog now.
Some of us like to wonder what it means to blog and what motivates us to create posts and share comments.
But you ever wonder what the immortals of myth might be saying about the blogosphere?
"Hey, that tickles."
As if these blog posts are feathers brushing under their feet.
Bloggers make the vacationing gods laugh.
(I had intended to write a conventional book review here, but this didn't turn out to be a book review. I guess you won't find the kind of book review here that follows John Updike's rules. You might find a writer playing with books, making love to books, bathing with books.)
But the main idea, if it were a book review, would be to try to convince anyone who reads this:
Please do read Anne Carson's Autobiography of Red, along with her newest Decreation.
I wonder if anyone else thinks it would be refreshing to see more novels written in verse.