| March 1, 2003 One of the problems with being a writer, particulary a poet, is that you tend to make connections. You see rain dripping into a puddle, you think of the Civil War. You see a cat sunning itself, you think of the summer of 1971. Poets are always trying to extrapolate the extraordinary from the ordinary. Some of these extrapolations become poems, some essays, some rants, but most simply disappear into forever, bound to one of the many neurons that die every day in the human brain, capturable only if you attach them in that instant to a message for someone, anyone, even and especially your future self. And it's on THAT cheery note that I start this blog! Thoughts on writing, on writers, on world events of interest to writers (that's EVERYTHING, by the way), will pile up here like cedar leaves on an untended lawn chair. Hey. I like that. Where's my pencil..... David Vincenti Advisor, Center for the Performing Arts at DeBaun Auditorium www.debaun.org; www.davidvincenti.com
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