words support like bone

Oh, the cycles of life. Specifically, the cycle of writing has been getting me thinking a lot.

In the last two weeks, I've written a bunch of songs, both finished and not, both in my regular notebook and on shreds of thermapaper from cash registers, both being made up of my usual pet themes as well as being about nothing at all. It's been good. But everytime I hit a writing flash like this, it's only a matter of time before I unconsciously start seeking out other writers.

Maybe it's just because my brain wants to surround itself with what I'm into at the moment. But I think it's because the more I feel like I'm getting a handle on writing, the more I realize that there's a whole freaking pandora's box in my mind, and once I start letting out slips of thoughts in a steady stream every day, I can't turn it off, and don't know how to handle the less-familar, shadowy ideas that I didn't even know I had.

Consequently, I've been voraciously gnawing at books all week. Barnes and Noble (the one in Chelsea that has that coffee bar on the balcony floor) always makes me feel pseudo-intelligent, and I try to get a dose of it when I'm in these moods. Anne Sexton -- a brilliant poet, who I only became familiar with after obsessing over the Peter Gabriel song "Mercy Street" -- revealed some insane poems to me this week, among them, "Rumpelstiltskin" and "Suicide Note." I don't know loads about her, but she moved into poetry rather late in life, which is mind-boggling to me because her writing would suggest she was swaddled in it from an early age.

In passing I picked up a Dylan Thomas collection, eenie-meenied my way to a random poem, and had my mind blown. All I knew was "Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light," or whatever it's called. I'm retarded.

It'd be nice if all this intake will give me more perspective and help me manhandle all these pandorian matters.