During one week in Boston, I went to a poetry reading where Mary Ruefle stuck to reading the poems and one where Paul Muldoon tried to clarify all the allusions he could, and in transport to these readings I began an admiration for the musician Clem Snide.
At the end of the reading, when the students were asking Mary Ruefle questions for x-tra credit, she had a revelation: the time had come when when she was painting and/or making visual art for the public. To her, making erasures had been a private enterprise. She had always thought about visual art as her "bank account of joy"--something she could rely on if everything else failed. Her language reminded me of something David Lynch would say.
Before she left, she kissed one manuscript goodnight, whispering you will be home with me soon. Her name was signed on the bottom of the title page of an old book.
I walked away thinking that what we are willing to abandon affects our relation to what we make.
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