the cactus ghost of carriage place
Alas, poor cactus. I knew him well. On Sunday the organization I work for hosted an event for people who teach community writing workshops. The room where the event took place was freezing; people jogged in place between writing prompts. When I mentioned this to my dad on the phone later, he said, “I hate to think of you being cold.” Was there ever a more dad thing to say? Yes, he’s got my chemo-compromised immune system in mind, but if parents could have their way, their children would never suffer. Of course, that means they would never exist. One of the writers at the event said: “2012 was a hard year for me. I lost my job. I lost a really close friend. When I think about my life, it’s like this—” She made a roller coaster motion with her hand. “But then there’s poetry—” She made a straight line. “It’s this constant.” Yes. Not just poetry, but yes. Writing. I’m so alert to the dangers of romanticizing the artistic life that I sometimes forget its power. Then I get in a ...