(no subject)

Reading the New Yorker this morning about a professor at Bennington, it hit me that I was blocked by Robert Kelly. I had wanted to be a writer my whole life. Went to Bard to be a writer and then was rejected from his Freshman poetry class. Finis. One could say that were I really a writer, it wouldn't have stopped me. Surely there were other classes, other venues for writing. In part overwhelmed by life at Bard, by parties and relationships and circumstance. Also a lack of self-esteem. If the great white Daddy man doesn't like my work then I'm worthless. But I really stopped, except for journaling and studying literature. That rejection by a sexual predator was the end. Did I even realize then that the dream had been killed? I remember being upset. Not everyone got in. LB did of course. I jump to conclusions. We didn't submit pictures with our poems, did we? (there is also a tangent here where I underestimate how my appearance has influenced options available to me.)

And now, starting to write this plague diary was a step in the correct direction. The dream is not dead, it's been dormant. But how to begin, so late. Doomed to always be book adjacent. I want to take a class of course. Learn from the greats. Talk about it but why not just write? Just a story. Once upon a time...

Bah. Last night we watched American Utopia, Spike Lee's film of David Byrne's stage show. Just brilliant. I'm sorry I missed it when it was here. To think I walked by the theater every day and never went in. Regrets.

Preparing for the construction now. Should we stay or should we go? If we go, where and how long will it be for?