Consigned to Dance Over Pots and Pans

Must read the book reviewed here.

How much would we all be capable of if we weren't required to make our own ends meet? I've always felt sort of on the fence about translating into contemporary culture Woolf's sentiment about a room of one's own and sufficient money. Perhaps that waffling speaks to how truly priviledged I am? I do have a room of my own, after all, and a more than living wage. But to me, time is the currency in question nowadays. We live in a very work-driven culture. Thus, little time to do those things that are not work. In this case, I define work as something you do to pay the bills. Something you do to pay the bills that you also enjoy and benefit from some bit of upward mobility I would call a career. Something you do that you also enjoy and from which you receive scarce little tangible benefit is called poetry. Or masturbation. The two can be perilously close, I feel.

But really, how glorious a name is Lottie Hope? Maybe I was channeling her in my persona poems? If I wasn't before, I shall henceforth.


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