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25 Oct 2002 / 8:06 p.m.
.:  whinge.

poetry is such a whipping-boy. no one owns up to being into poetry - not that many are, but those that are won't admit to it. my brother likes to point out to me that Nietzsche talked a lot of shit about poets. this ultimately doesn't mean much, since he talked a lot of shit about everybody. meta's pointed out my tendency towards masochism a few times this week - i guess wanting to write and teach poetry sort of falls nicely into that box.

i have an overwhelming desire to drive to the coast. in portland, this is a thing that can be done on a whim. in grand junction, the nearest coast is over 1000 miles away. my whims don't have the staying power to keep me in a car for 16 hours.

two paragraphs of whining and i am out of steam. i should take the dog for a walk. it is autumn, and there is so much for us to smell - cold exhaust, wet leaves turning to soil, water in the air.

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