Nicaragua

Tomorrow, I’m discussing this article from Harper’s. The students in my class have done a variety of writing assignments. Now, they are blogging, and I want them to think about the things we do as creators. About copyright. And borrowing. And stealing. Plagiarizing. But how anything: an image, a poem, a news article, a quotation—you name it—can be used as the spring-loaded diving board that will plunge us into the wetness of creativity. (And yes. Creativity is never dry for me. It’s always moist. Clearly, I’m not a Lacanian.)

I have been writing non-stop for days. Okay. I have stopped. To sleep. Or read. In the past month, I’ve read close to a dozen books, and this new influx of material is primordial broth from which I expect to make some piquant soup. I feel as if I’m replenishing myself after a long, draining winter that buried me.

I meant to write about this article when it first came out. I know I mentioned it to friends, especially Liza, whose logo should be recognizable. It’s Molotov Man. But when I looked at Molotov man today in preparation for teaching tomorrow, a different image popped into my head. The image of the Loyalist’s death from the Spanish Civil War.