Life keeps hurtling forward, bursting forth. It’s spring in California, the jasmine’s come in and the streaky roses. It’s been raining hard all morning; just now it stopped abruptly. Lyn writes in My Life, “she observed that detail minutely, as if it were botanical. As if words could unite an ardent intellect with the external material world.” This is Lyn, vitally observing, drawing it all into relation, the mind and the world, botanical, passionate. Making words hold life, making words as life. “Such that art is inseparable from the search for reality,” she writes.
Dear readers
This is an invitation to correspond.
I have a complicated and too often angsty relationship with the territories known as “the internet”—not to mention a complicated and too often angsty relationship with the territories known as “writing.” I avidly (if not-so-speedily) write letters and postcards to send through the actual physical through-snow-and-rain post (hooray for mail carriers and their snazzy racing-stripe pants!),