Last night Matt gave me (a) a new iPod, (b) Mary Oliver's new poetry collection Red Bird, and (c) a 'coupon' for a book of my choice.
Surfing her words, I cried twice at Oliver's God-exposing poetry. I dreamt stories overnight; there is this crashing swell of creativity swirling around me. It's heady, but (awake at 5:30 a.m., typing madly about adulterers in Britain and a terrified boy in an invented world) also suggestive of an undertow.
And this morning I chose the post-birthday world by Lionel Shriver. Kismet. Like Matt, it was meant to be.
No comments:
Post a Comment