“I’m prone to making my life, my family, and the world around me complicit in my cosmic fable, and often it’s not fair to manipulate the hard facts of life into a vision quest,”
“You’ve punctured my solitude, I told you. It had been a useful solitude, constructed, as it was, around a recent sobriety, long walks to and from the Y through the sordid, bougainvillea-strewn back streets of Hollywood, evening drives up and down Mulholland to kill the long nights, and, of course, maniacal bouts of writing, learning to address no one. But the time for its puncturing had come. I feel I can give you everything without giving myself away, I whispered in your basement bed. If one does one’s solitude right, this is the prize.
Excerpt From: Maggie Nelson. “The Argonauts.” Apple Books.
The poetic mind is a grateful one, it’s a mind that celebrates the miracle of being. The poetic mind is moody, and it digs its heels into these moods, pulling out the best and worst of feelings in the name of discovery, in the name of the shared human condition. The poetic mind shines a light on its uniqueness and its unique way of coping with grief or anger. The gift of this mind is that it can turn any experience into one of worth, into something meaningful, into an answer or a gift of clarity.