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Thirty One: Patterson February 17, 2014

Posted by The Typist in 365, New Orleans, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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As if in answer to yesterday’s post, as I sorted through the weekend mail, I found a long-forgotten order of Williams Carlos William’s Paterson–cost, $0.99 plus shipping–had finally arrived. I opened it to a random page.

II

    Blocked.
        (Make a song out of that: concretely)
    By whom?

  In its midst rose a massive church.     .    .    And it all came to me then–that those pour souls had nothing else in teh world, save that church, between them and the eternal stony, unfrateful and unpromising dirt they lived by   .  .  .

    Cash is mulct of them that other may live
    secure
    .  .  and knowledge restricted.

    An orchestral dullness overlays their world.

Williams labored by day as an pediatrician and obstetrician, and read and wrote far into the night. Perhaps then that is meant to be my fate. No,scampering off to Europe for a month’s writing workshop. No graduate school tomfoolery. I am not sure I am meant to be a teacher. I believe I am meant to be a creator. If I have to give up other parts of life and sleep to do so, well, I have done that before.

Then again Googling Mark Folse seems to be a major preoccupation of someone lately; possibly recruiters and employers. I may be making myself unemployable but what I write here. Still, I cannot be silent.

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