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Aug. 6th, 2008

This Joyce Carol Oates poem about William Carlos Williams has sent me orbiting deep into thought, swinging between a celebratory love of life and a despair that bites into the bone. It's the best thing about my day so far.

(Oh, but the day is young!)

God I hope I would have the guts to do what Wm. C. Wm. did after his strokes. I hope I would flail bravely, angrily, tearfully away at my typewriter regardless of what got scrambled between my brain and my fingertips, and then just send the letter anyway, relying on the people I loved to understand what I meant. Especially if I were a writer.

And thinking of WCW reminds me of Dr. Stitt. Peter Stitt. Ah, me, back in that strange time of limbo at the University of Houston. I wonder if it was some form of purgatory for him, as it was for me?


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Aug. 6th, 2008 09:32 pm (UTC)
Wot with the long history of males on my dad's side dropping off from strokes (or lingering decades after) starting very very young - one uncle was 38 when he was incapacitated - that thar pome sure resonates.

My biggest fear/dread is having that happen to me - be reduced to utter inability to think/express myself, and/or be wiped out before I write what I'm capable of and have planned.
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