Image of the Day: How the white throated nuthatches and grey tufted tit-mice fly into the feeder on my window, all sharp speed and grace.
I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Mine was delicious, argumentative, happy, painful and quick.
I have a poem here at Lyre Lyre. I do not have a glass eyeball but I did have something, well, to me something similar that made me feel self-conscious and less than, if you know what I mean. It is weird how our bodies reveal stuff about ourselves, and yet sometimes it's our flaws that are the most revealing things of beauty. (Of course here I am thinking of your flaws, not my flaws.)
From an interview with Valzhyna Mort:
I always write in response to what I read. If I'm not reading anything, I won't be able to write anything. I've said that certain poets wound you, and so you keep on going after them, and because they have hurt you, only they have the power of healing you, and in that conversation, I think, you're able to find yourself, to restore yourself again.
From The Imagination, Drunk with Prohibitions by Joy Katz
Womanhood is more embarrassing than manhood.
If the woman is old, breakfast is hopeless.
If breakfast is brioche, it becomes less frightening.
Insouciant is more French than nuance,
disappointment more French than matinee,
London more suave than Paris.