my book club of dreams

I can say without uncertainty that I’ve gotten more writing work done in these few months of living in LA than I did in my last year living in Chicago. I’ve written more poems, had more acceptances, have an actual paid writing job, and feel immense creative fulfillment. All of this, of course, without the community that I had with Study Hall. I miss Study Hall dearly.

Sometimes I feel like nobody can hear me. Like my questions or comments don’t merit response. I feel really small here. Like after the mass betrayal (a story for another time) when everybody knew me as “Paul’s girlfriend.” It’s hard to find my own people. Ones that seem right for me, and which of them are worth pursuing, which will lead me to more joys. I’m praying for a poetry reading to fall into my lap, that the universe will hear my pleas and deem them worthy of an answer, some sort of bounty. The book club of dreams. I want to know that this will all be worth it. I feel the weight of what I left behind pulling at my ankles in a way I didn’t think I would.

I don’t even have a tan. My right leg is swarmed by mosquitoes. It’s all so tragic.

In other news, I’ve been reading Lyn Hejinian’s My Life and Heather Christle’s The Trees The Trees again lately, and have been drawing a lot of comparisons between these two writers’ collections. Something about the intersection between the meditative and the disjunctive always sticks me in the heart. I’d highly recommend flipping between the two in tandem and seeing what comes up for you. I want to talk about books more with people. Should I start my own book club? Or should I just give up?