Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Wednesday afternoon. Writing in Georgia font. Sitting in my black jeans, no shirt, my gut just slightly bulging above my belt line. Uggghhh. Need to return to the gym, and keep up a regular habit of it.

Today's Rimbaud's birthday. Yes, the poet. Time was, he used to be my favorite poet, back when I myself aspired to poet-hood. Garrison Keillor includes a brief bio of him in the Writer's Almanac:

When he was sixteen, Rimbaud wrote a letter to one of his teachers, describing his poetic philosophy. He said, "The first task of any man who would be a poet is to know himself completely; he seeks his soul, inspects it, tests it, learns it...Every kind of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself; he exhausts every possible poison so that only essence remains."

Following that philosophy, Rimbaud began hopping trains to Paris, usually without a ticket, where he lived on the street and often wound up in jail. People from his hometown would bail him out, and he'd go home to his angry mother, only to run away again a few weeks later.


To read the rest, click here...




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