I’ve been writing in my journal and on my computer and on my hand this: EVERYTHING IS MATERIAL. I want to believe that my writing, the polished kind, can hold everything I need it to hold. I have to believe that descending into Detroit on an airplane can be a poem, as can dogs, and even fertility, and even a bad cold. All of it somehow has to fit not just in a blog but in writing that is publishable. I have to believe that the drawings in my journals can turn into something, and all of this is of a piece.
EVERYTHING IS MATERIAL.
Which is perhaps why this morning, too heavy or not, I dragged my writing table down to the drawing part of my studio. Thump thump thump down each stair. The two can be more united. I like it down here. The light’s different. I’m staring at my drawings. I’m trying not to see them as aliens as I type. I’m seeing that all morning and for the past couple of days I’ve been working on a photo project on my computer, this computer where I usually type, and now here I am in the drawing space and it is all of a piece.
