I have this reoccurring thought that I am being taking over by words/language and I cannot expel them fast enough, as they keep coming, and I am overwhelmed.
This, of course, stems from me currently running out of physical space in my house for my books. They are literally everywhere in my house. The wife has even employed short stacks of books as stands for lamps, pictures, at times even coasters. One cannot venture to any room in my house without encountering books, my books.
Broken Wrist Project
Bouquet of Hungers
Annie John
The Fire Next Time
What the Twilight Says
I often wonder what friends think when they see my books scattered.
My books are everywhere, and it is quite annoying to have to move a lamp out of the way in order to access a certain ones.
Seen of the Crime
Notes on Conceptualisms
White Noise
Compression & Purity
Lolita
But as we compose we are constantly moving groups of words out of the way to get to the ones we want. The words keep coming, but where do we place them.
I often wonder what people think when they encounter my work. What is the extent to which they encounter? Are they reading or looking?
The same goes for my books sprawled about my house. Some visitors have gone as far as asking to borrow – of course I never see those books again, and am quite upset/sad about this, but others act as if they don’t notice the three floor to ceiling bookshelves, the two 3’x 6” bookshelves, and the other books scattered about.
Sag Harbor
Tropic of Orange
Ceremony
Real Sofistikashun
Neon Vernacular
This, I’ve concluded, is what separates the readers from the non-readers – quite the obvious conclusion… right?
I have always been in quite taken by the statement, “oh I don’t read.” At its essence, impossible. One may not read books – I am just as taken with this idea too – but a literate human being cannot go any amount a time without actually reading. If you see something containing words – and can read – as you look, you will have read.
The Loser
The Hakawati
Repair
We Who Love to be Astonished
Poems for the Millennium
Who do we create for, the looker, or the reader? Does it matter?
Does a piece exist without being read?
“If a tree falls in the forest, and nobody is there to hear the sound, does it make a noise?”
As one sees the spines of the books in my house – scattered everywhere the eye can see – is there anything beyond the title they read? Is the title even being read?
Is the title even being read?
