atlas of the difficult (but remarkable) world

My reading has been largely rooted in poetry. Poetry and Edith Wharton (whom I'm feeling would have a fabulous take on Paris Hilton). But what has been holding me captive has been the precision of poetry. Maybe it's because I'm living with all these details: the patterns and stitches of my knitting, winding yarn from skeins into balls, listening to T recite the train schedules, watching for the subways, feeling the weather get hotter degree by degree and then cool again, listening to Deb Talen's music, thinking about learning German, how I'll ever construct a schedule to make that (oh and my larger writing) a reality.

I'm returning to old friends. I want to pull all the books down and read pages then skip to other books. I've been having a hard time concentrating on reading lately because all the words are just exciting and inspiring me to the point where I have to stop and let the moments brim over.

Good thing that acoustic guitar of mine now lives with my brother. I might pick it up and start playing again. That might not please the neighbors (or the roommates). The clicking of needles and yarn is just loud enough for these muggy nights.