So when I write on here, I'll have you know--or perhaps more accurately my foolish, transient Pride would have you know--that I am aware of the grammatical errors in my free writing. Not enough to fix them, but enough to not really care enough to fix them--somehow bad grammar is still fun sometimes. I assume that will dry up soon, maybe not--I thought of how terrific it would be to have the courage to write bad poetry again. I bet it would get some really great ideas out. So maybe this is just the bad prose? Oh, what am I doing with these, 'goods' and 'bads' floating around the words, anyone in contact with the interior life is aware of their fluidity.
So here is a portion of The Interior Life by Baudelaire, which I think fits the final moments of my evening and night of today nicely.
So here is a portion of The Interior Life by Baudelaire, which I think fits the final moments of my evening and night of today nicely.
"It is there that I lived in exalted calm,
In the midst of the azure, the splendor, the waves,
While pregnant with perfumes, naked slaves
Refreshed my forehead with branches of palm,
Whose gentle and only care was to know
The secret that caused me to languish so."
-From The Flowers of Evil
I hope you had a great day today.
KS
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