small

Sep. 28th, 2007 05:29 pm
thisnewday: (Default)
[personal profile] thisnewday
 gonna find myself a small bar, a small bookstore, a small circle of friends. and, just in case anyone was wondering, i haven't ruled out looking for them on a small island...

Date: 2007-10-06 12:41 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] swamp-rose.livejournal.com
One wonders why "small?"

Date: 2007-10-07 01:17 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] olbuksings.livejournal.com
ahh, it's the minimalist in me?

Date: 2007-10-09 02:26 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] swamp-rose.livejournal.com
sigh. seems so limiting. no heights to be soared? pretty sure there are depths. no horizons to test oneself against? just boundaries, constricting stifling next-to-nothingness.. in-bred,insular,and insufferable. yikes!

noticing the ?? at the end of your almost-statement ... so you're not so sure?

me, I need BIG bookstores!! and libraries!!! have a few GOOD friends (don't let many close) and prefer my own "roost" to travel. Been everywhere in my imagination, why pay air fair and suffer the outrages and discomfort of travel.

Date: 2007-10-09 08:38 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] olbuksings.livejournal.com
i guess the important thing is what you do with whatever your experience happens to have been. when you look, for instance, at a life and body of work like emily dickinson's, it's hard to insist that you've gotta travel the world to realize your vision and find your voice.

on the other hand, we probably wouldn't want to deprive sylvia beach of her life in bohemian paris. else the world might never have read james joyce's "ulysses." or have turned lawrence ferlinghetti back on the outskirts of san francisco, possibly depriving us of ginsberg's "howl." and both, by the way, were proprietors of "small" bookstores.

still, i have to admit that finding a bright, new barnes & noble (with its clean restrooms and in-house starbucks) a few blocks off the embarcadero was one of the highlights of my own first trip into san francisco. on that occasion, i think the cycle of ironies was complete when i stepped to the counter and purchased bukowski's "roominghouse madrigals" with my shiny plastic gift card.

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