Our job as writers, as far as I can tell, is to attempt to express what seems inexpressible. The way we do this, I think, begins with a level of absolute attention to the world, which in and of itself is a difficult practice. But it doesn’t end there. Attention merely leads us to the threshold of the unknown, beyond which is where poetry lurks.
“Of all the things I wondered about on this land, I wondered the hardest about the seduction of certain geographies that feel like home—not by story or blood but merely by their forms and colors. How our perceptions are our only internal map of the world, how there are places that claim you and places that warn you away. How you can fall in love with the light.” -Ellen Meloy
[Image: Francesca Woodman, Providence, Rhode Island (Mirrors in Pilgrim Mills Loft), 1976; via foxesinbreeches]