Friday, January 13, 2006

So, more random thoughts, of use to . . . whom? So busy, not so much time to collect the fragments into anything more coherent this week, so here's what I've got:

All an ocean, self-consciousness a region long-traveling swells pass through—perception the region of shallowing limnality, the breakers what we call words. Called words. (and then, looking back, I added:) Those swells, what we choose to fill our consciousness, when choice is an element, which it always is. Which is where the metaphor breaks down; but for that, we are what swells pass through on their way to words, which wash back through, under and into us, away.


I wrote this line, not sure what to do with it:

To kiss you hopeful in the cool breeze of Spring

and then the weather got lovely for a few days--I think it hit 58 degrees on Thursday, here. So maybe it did something on its own (. . . the unacknowledged legislators of the weather?).


before the warm weather kissed us:

A Picture

of emptiness outside the house
satisfied the cold
it was lonely;
the more there was the surer it grew
and as the picture did not change,
it concentrated, diminished:
the icicles dripped
less; the moon hung
static; the river,
so fast,
would trip you at the ankles could you
move yourself to walk there,
down to the park
past branches grown black candelabras . . .
the porchlights and streetlights casting
downward through—as if the stars in repose
were reflection, were a dark
uncomposed, a negative lonely for vision,
an unsecond shuttered . . .


Not too satisfied with my words these days--like racing on stilts for balance, hard to change direction. But my daughter is lovely, and my son astounding, and Dara no less happy than I am; 'sweat of your brow' is right! We are happy.


Rereading Keats' letters, painful to remember the last time I was, because the last time I was was just before Jonah was born. I was mad to write every second I had left to do so whenever I wanted. Recalling what that was like, as a matter of somatic sensation, and feeling the dull exhaustion of now, the not-so-nice part is as the feeling of poetic immersion passes back into tiredness and responsibility. Once passed back again, I'll sleep.

Getting lost in Jerusalem analogous to wamdering among the labyrinthine byways of blogland; bloggers wanderers without a homeland, without an identity card, without a sure destination; blogging in its childhood, adolescence on the horizon- the private (family) public (career) conflict?

In blogland on a roll= slippery ice; showing oneself to be unsure of oneself, has its charms, and, what else can a blogger do?

As most of the literary world has long been mapped,
Conclusionless not necessarily clueless; on the contrary...

"Choose an identity": Call me ihvzoukm.
True, though mapped and known aren't really the same thing. Fortunately things don't stay set, they keep changing; it ain't baking after all. ahem.

"Occlusionless" = "occlusionist" is the last thing that came to mind, after the ellipses . . .

signed me, unoiv
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