Tonight I went to the Village Voice to listen to Michael Chabon read from two of his new books. He said that he writes to create worlds, to make visual & concrete parts of his imagination. His favorite books as a child were the ones with maps on the inserts.
I would like to spend a lot of time just writing, not having any other necessities or work, and devoting myself to writing about the world that I live in. I understand Chabon’s reasons for writing, and I think that would be one of my reasons too, but right now I just would love to make permanent, expressive, and vocal my own surroundings and experience. my life lately seems to be so full of synchronicity and beauty that I don’t need to imagine worlds.
I’m sitting up in my bed right now, the sloping ceiling cradling my left side, and my window right next to my head. The moon is almost perfectly full, and the dark gray clouds are brushing past it, turning silver as they skim the lunar surface. The rooftops and chimneypots create a Lego-like silhouette underneath it all, reaching upwards in an orderly mess. There are hearts drawn on some of the chimney-pots; I wonder what kind of love they proclaim, & whether the author still belives it.
I would like to spend a lot of time just writing, not having any other necessities or work, and devoting myself to writing about the world that I live in. I understand Chabon’s reasons for writing, and I think that would be one of my reasons too, but right now I just would love to make permanent, expressive, and vocal my own surroundings and experience. my life lately seems to be so full of synchronicity and beauty that I don’t need to imagine worlds.
I’m sitting up in my bed right now, the sloping ceiling cradling my left side, and my window right next to my head. The moon is almost perfectly full, and the dark gray clouds are brushing past it, turning silver as they skim the lunar surface. The rooftops and chimneypots create a Lego-like silhouette underneath it all, reaching upwards in an orderly mess. There are hearts drawn on some of the chimney-pots; I wonder what kind of love they proclaim, & whether the author still belives it.
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