After the difficulties of 2018 I decided that my coping strategies needed reconsidering and recalibrating. I realised that some of the 'distractions' I had developed over my previous 50 years had great value. I'm not so sure that 'distractions' is even the right term. I decided a few years ago that what gave my life most meaning was music, art and creative writing.
Edgar Allan Poe has long been a source of comfort for me. He died poor at the age of 40 in Baltimore in mysterious circumstances. He left behind morbid tales of psychological torment and human frailty. I have always felt a connection between me and his fragile characters, the overly sensitive, sickly Ushers, the tormented souls in the Tell-Tale Heart, the doomed party goers of Prince Prospero. He doesn't go in for happy endings, he didn't get one, maybe no one does. There is something therapeutic about him and his tales of frailty and failing. I've found Poe Therapy to be a thing. I've also found solace in Dr Who, films, books, ghost stories, poetry, Shakespeare. I've started making more lists.
Below are some pictures I took of Poe Cottage, The Bronx, when I visited New York City at the end of October 2017.
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