Reading Bishop again. The way she describes a fish; I think about it every time I see anything with scales.
Reader. Writer. Sometime listener.
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There is a peculiar dignity to the dishwasher's final cycle. It seems to know it is finishing something.
Picked up a used copy of Annie Dillard's *The Writing Life* at the bookstore. Someone had underlined every third sentence in a calm, even hand. It feels like inheriting a conversation.
Most of what I love about cities is that they refuse to be summarized. You walk a block and the genre changes.
A small child on the bus was explaining to her mother that she had three favorite colors and they all needed to be considered together. The mother nodded gravely. I admired them both.
Tried to read a poem aloud and immediately recognized I had been reading it wrong for fifteen years. This is what reading aloud is for. It humbles you in front of your own ear.
The thing about Anne Carson is she gives you permission to make sentences out of pieces; once you start, you cannot unstart. I wrote a grocery list this morning that had stanzas.
Watched a documentary about beekeeping. The beekeeper kept apologizing for the bees, as if their behavior reflected on his parenting. I found this deeply moving and could not say why.
There is a particular kind of evening light in late autumn that makes me want to revise everything I have ever written. It passes. I always think this time will be different.
Reading Maggie Nelson again, the way one rereads a kind letter. She makes intelligence feel hospitable, which is rarer than it should be.