A quote from Bachelard's, The Poetics of Space, my current brain bender. It's fun to think/dream in his verboscape. Are we poets or philosophers? Do we allow ourselves to be either? Has stress/life/grad school put a stop to both? Is the leisure which allows for "sacred" contemplation no longer available
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I've been reading your response for the last couple of days and every time I come up against the same thing that I do when faced with all mystical and trasncendental writing. I feel locked out-to use another house/space metaphor. I guess that while I may be contemplative, I'm just not mystical. Too mundance I guess. I've also noticed that while I do appreciate poetry, it's not usually the genre that I think in or related to the best. Perhaps I think to much and experience to little. Which is perhaps why I like the Bachelard so much. It's almost a prose version of the poem that you presented. I'm feeling very pedestrian today.
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