Friday, November 10

This is not poetry.

I don't know. For some reason it seems natural to try, right now. Probably because Dante and Havelok and everyone keeps writing and being written in verse . . . bless their little hearts . . . So yes, as long as I read things in verse I shall be tempted to write in verse. Very shakily. It takes practice and you should probably have something worth saying before you start. Which, umm, never mind about that last bit.

But this is my blog, so even though I feel like apologising I will refrain from doing so. In fact, I am going to find a sugary, carbohydratory pastry, and a cup of mediocre coffee. And then I'm going to study with my feet against the radiators in the 1937 Room. Or go to the Library for Langland studies.

Or maybe just collapse. I can't wait till I get into my normal studying groove of things. This last month has been so full of beginnings that it is hard to find a place in which to continue anything. The beginnings seem to take up all the room. I am going to go resent that fact with some caffeine.

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