Teatro Tomasino’s 37th
October 20, 2014 / 1 Notes
October 14, 2014 / 8136 Notes
October 7, 2014 / 299 Notes
"Writing is a religious act: it is an ordering, a reforming, a relearning and reloving of people and the world as they are and as they might be. A shaping which does not pass away like a day of typing or a day of teaching. The writing lasts: it goes about on its own in the world. People read it: react to it as to a person, a philosophy, a religion, a flower: they like it, or do not. It helps them, or it does not. It feels to intensify living: you give more, probe, ask, look, learn, and shape this: you get more: monsters, answers, color and form, knowledge. You do it for itself first. If it brings in money, how nice. You do not do it first for money. Money isn’t why you sit down at the typewriter. Not that you don’t want it. It is only too lovely when a profession pays for your bread and butter. With writing, it is maybe, maybe-not. How to live with such insecurity? With what is worst, the occasional lack or loss of faith in the writing itself? How to live with these things? The worst thing, worse than all of them, would be to live with not writing. So how to live with the lesser devils and keep them lesser?"
October 7, 2014 / 1 Notes
The day was setting and the clouds thick. The light passed through gently through my window and the walls were like lacquered thickly of an orange-purplish haze. The day had been nice. The day had been merciful: warm tile floors, billowing curtains, breeze a gentle, and a world of my own quiet — a merciful day, it is.
October 4, 2014 / 4 Notes
The city’s wrapped in a fleece of wooly cumulous, the wind cold breathing through the window, and the sun shyly peering through greys. I thought it was nice, just nice. I suspect the weather will continue thus in the following weeks.