I started reading Edmund Jabés' The Book of Questions again today—it asks, among other things, how to write after the wound/disaster, how word and silence interact. I have been interested in white space and silence and the gap in poetry for a long time, so I'm always interested in these questions. The space around the object. What is / for the body. I finally repotted the orchids today, which need air pockets in their potting medium, which I had left waiting too long in moist, dense soil. I cut away the rotted roots and put the plants back in chunks of bark and pearlite. After it was done, I had the urge to do it again.
The density and lightness and contrast of prose and verse is something that I hope I don't get over. To be left dangling after the line. In how many times the spacebar / the backslash / the threshold is the word and the blank surface upon which the word.