If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.
You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.
If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, you must be the the one to write it.
Something that is loved is never lost.
(I am still working on this one.)
We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.
As promised, please check out my review of Matt Ferrence’s Appalachia North, a book I loved.
In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.
All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home,
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other’s bodies.
(from the Poetry Foundation.)
In honor of James Wright, I drove through Martins Ferry as I headed west from Pittsburgh.
A cross-post here for my final evening in Lancaster County, when I attended a play that impressed me deeply. Read about it here.
Check me out today over at my MFA program’s Heartwood blog: Road Writing. Thanks!
Today another cross-post: part 2 of my review of William Least Heat-Moon’s Blue Highways.
Thanks! Back to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.