It’s a Poem, not a Flu Shot.

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I’d never been to the opera before. This weekend, I saw Armide in downtown Amsterdam. The singing was French and the subtitles, displayed on an overhead digital board, Dutch. In two-and-a-half hours, I managed bonjour and vrouw, the Dutch word for woman.

When three knights in plastic armor swung in circles fighting flower petals falling from the sky, I was mesmerized. When goblins with melting faces appeared writhing next to women in blond wigs and pink skirt suits, less so. There was a lake and a desert and a horse and a witch. Did I understand what was going on? Rarely. Was I enjoying trying to figure it out? Absolutely.

So that’s my challenge to everyone: give it a try. Buy a poem. They’re twenty-five cents. If you can’t afford one, or can’t seem to get the online shop working, email me: christinepsstocke@hotmail.com.  I’ll try not to be intimidating. I’ll try not to be overly-complicated, but if the poem is, if I am, worst case scenario, recycle it. Otherwise, for the twenty seconds it’ll take you to read it, have fun. Take whatever you want from it, and leave everything else behind. Like the first line and hate the rest. I’ll never hold it against you.

For those of you who’ve already purchased poems, it’s understatement to say that you’ve made me feel better about life and literature. Your passion for the topics you’ve chosen has made me want to write and write and write. And for an author, there’s no better feeling.

(https://www.etsy.com/listing/165156186/custom-poem-for-25-cents-free-shipping?ref=shop_home_feat)

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The Bright Side of your Common Cold

Graffiti in Warsaw

Graffiti in Warsaw

I used to think that getting a cold was a drag, and, don’t get me wrong, my throat’s sore and my head is bumping to my heartbeat. But, it’s raining this wonderful pitter patter, and I’m sitting in bed writing. Bundled up to my chin with my arms out the sides of my comforter poncho. (No, I will not be including a photo.) And I’m not feeling guilty that the dishes aren’t done or that dinner won’t be made. It’s not bothering me in the slightest that the dryer just beeped, and I’m not going to fold anything for days. The common cold: a great excuse to do nothing but write.

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