Saturday, October 9, 2010

What Can I Trust Now

This is Van Gogh's Starry Night

Elizabeth Kate Switaj wrote: Note to self: when writing, trust instincts, even if it makes the task harder. Especially if it makes the task harder.

That's a delightful statement from my new FaceBook friend. I can't help it. I am a responder by nature. This is how I responded to her.

What Can I Trust Now?

I trusted my instincts and look what it got me...
My life has turned to just this place and my words
Are whorls like stars in Van Gogh's sky.
They leak like that and turn me froward
(Used to be a real word, like toward and untoward)
And I rationalize in a hurry these days.

October 9, 2010 7:47 PM


  1. Trust your instincts and go with them, but only after spending a lot of time learning as much as possible to give your instincts enough knowledge to send you on the right road.

  2. Heh. :D You mean my rationalizing might be well informed...

  3. Another way of saying 'trust your instincts', Christopher is to 'write what makes you sweat.'

  4. Is it getting warm in here?

    How about "notice it when your back itches."

    I keep a back scratcher close by all the time now, but the edges of openings in hallways works too. In the forest bears use trees. I would too.

  5. Sometimes i have no words, that come to me, like now. I just love what you write. The post before too.

  6. I left a response for you on my blog, Christopher, both in the comments and in a new post. There's nothing wrong with your instincts. I saw that word froward somewhere else just recently,too.

  7. tratiole is what the word verf. is today, at this moment.

    It sounds Italian, doesn't it?

    Like a dance.

    I like your poetry.

  8. Rachel, as you may know already, I have replied. The axe is broken and rusting now, in a corner of the fence out in the autumn weather.

    Jarvenpa! I haven't seen a comment from you for a long time now - at least a long time as blogtime goes. I think that is a terrific word ver. It makes me think of La Traviata.

  9. Me too, Christopher. And I like the soulful poem you left in your comment at my site.

    In this world much is untranslatable.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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